How often life revolves into spinning a bottle?

How often life revolves into spinning a bottle?


Until empty;


In forgotten alleyway

Truth hold communication


Within commune a la conspirator

Snifter held to nose



We collude a separate rush;

Train heave on to Horsforth; foot carries to Holbeck



Over bold horizon,

Through a Bedouin drape, pours liquid morn;

Nagging reminders arose


Scorn drag on smoke ladened

Snoozing head;

Damp cheek on pillow case

On fingers numb days count back, waiting

For happy call of phoned news


Every day is forever

Crossed out, scribbled,

Dashed against razor rocks,


On mornings condense the patrons

Solace found in drinking hole

And coffee prior to none at noon


From a lightly swaying cradle

To the yawning grave,

We hang around; queued

Until a’snoring

Time appears again


A heart says flee and never return.

Take all you can, pull up root, jump train

Plane away

Plane the grain smooth

Step onto a horizon clean

Green plain

Gray life no longer dangling feet first

Looking for the moment Gravity wills

You down.


I am on repeat…repeat…

Looking back over the previous two entries in my blogger account I realise I am being repetitive. Although there are a few intervening weeks between the two items there are numerous terms and phrases that seem to occur regularly. I read somewhere that some of the Monty Python team kept a thesaurus close at hand so maybe this is clue to creative variety?


Back in 1992 my mother bought me a glorious two-part set of the ‘Oxford Shorter English Dictionary‘ and the Roget’s Thesaurus that a ‘bookclub’ was offering at that time. I think the books were free, but were very very much less than the hundred pounds Amazon currently offers the two part ‘Oxford Shorter English Dictionary’ and Thesaurus. At university they were the most significant book shelf items I would ponder other than the Riverside Chaucer and Norton Anthology of English Literature. I recall that there was a much annotated The Wasteland – Ezra Pound or somebody’s scratchings  in the university library and I had much fun here (The Waste Land: A Facsimile and Transcript of the Original Drafts Including the Annotations of Ezra Pound).


When I wrote my pitiful poetry I was trying to mimic Eliot in style if not in contents. Most of the 1992 to 1995 era and then the post-university scribblings leave me feeling I am incapable of forming clear metaphors, similes, hyperbole, iambic pentameter, etc., but I spent a great deal of time on the thoughts composed on the page even if then I was immature and repeated stylistically without knowing or creating the hidden mystery that makes all great poetry.


My mind recalls a number of traditional 14 line sonnets I attempted to write after studying Elizabethan and Jacobin Literature with Dr Richard Prior. A girl Rosie came off well in one: the Northern Irish girl who I saw regularly around campus, in the Lonsdale, Harpers, Trent House, the Greenmarket, Jesmond Library and elsewhere: I still have that verse somewhere. Something in Marlowe moved me more than Shakespeare and John Ford’s ‘Tis Pity She’s Whore was a firm favourite I saw performed once.


The lecturers and tutors made little of me and I once got accused of plagiarism in Nineteenth Century Fiction because I got a my first ‘1st’ in an essay…which I think surprised my tutor! I do really dig Charles Dickens and specifically “Sketches by Boz” (Sketches by “Boz,” Illustrative of Every-day Life and Every-day People) so much that I felt sure when a question arose for that ‘text’ I was well suited to write a powerful piece; I still pick up that volume and purchased Sketches of Young Gentlemen (1838)

Sketches of Young Couples (1840) in Lower Marsh, Waterloo to follow more of the emotive caricatures written by ‘Boz’ .


Allan Ingram, head of our department, once told me I would have to start reading and quoting criticisms if I was ever to achieve better marks than high 50’s. I found it so boring and tried to understand the text my own way quoting no one else and leaving a very short fragmented bibilography, I skipped the whole of Theories and Methods from the 2nd year onwards! My concepts were sometimes half baked, badly argued or down right wrong (I wish Allan well, wherever or whatever he is currently doing, as he made me feel adequate in a very insecure and indifferent time in my life). Hey I hated the concept of  canon in literature by F.R Leavis, The Great Tradition (1948), to fire that pompous know it all out of a howitzer would have been fun! I left the concept of criticism firmly by the Library door circa 1992 to 1995.


It seems I need to keep a Thesaurus close by when I run out of words!


We are almost three weeks into 2013; times passage is relative to the age and preoccupation of the individual I am sure, but who knows where the time goes? Sat in another Starbucks I have applied for another half dozen jobs today. I think I will return to Wetherby for a Snoops cuddle as funds run low until Tuesday and work still feels far away.

PGL, wilderness

My last blogging date was 31st May.

Between then and now I have moved back to Wetherby from a brief return to 97.

reacquainted with the Wetherby circuit,

registered with more recruitment agencies,

relieved my invalided mother,

returned to walk the dog a lot,

really had a laugh with Stephen Betts twice in York,

drunk a copious amount of grinning cider,

put on a spot of weight and

worked at Royal Ascot in the Pavilion.

But now I am getting the 9:48 am number 99 to Leeds.

I am to pick up the London train to journey to Haslemere in Surrey for what maybe the next summer adventure: chef at PGL Boreatton Park . Hopefully lots of new fun things might happen maybe I can lose the weight I’ve accumulated since I quit Millie’s in March.

Train observation


Eastern European girls are so used to the kind of rules from the bad old days of communism that they come to England forgetting to use the rules in our system.

Never come across a more blank but beautiful collective of women. They don’t know how to chill or slob.

I once met a girl working at Kolkovna Celnice, Náměstí Republiky, Prague, who was very very beautiful in that Slavic manor; high cheekbones, finely tall and not an ounce of fat. Although we had never shared any words – her English didn’t exist and my Czech is terrible, we stared at each other until we ended up in each others arms: maybe it was the intrigue of our situation?

As she worked the bar, there was only me there enjoying a Urquell Pivo mid afternoon, circa 2004, it was quiet and this was a spontaneous thing, but very unlike most Czech girls I met in the many times I’ve visited that stunning land. I returned later in the day and air had changed – now I was shy and the bar was crowding.

Oh how I wish I had spoken her language rather than this awful northern grunt. Do I dream of living anywhere else? Peace Square, Vinohrady to enjoy nights of Moravian wine!


On the 11:05 to KX.

Just pulling away from Doncaster station.



and Nature’s Plus Source of Life Gold.

Looks like a lovely day. We’ll arrive in London around 13:30, but I must slip through not touching this fantasy?

Even with the recent rain the fields look parched. The usual green is mingled with yellow as the corn matures and in the blank patches of earth there is a dusty light brown.

Gnarly trees dead trees linger like fire burnt fragments of a carboniferous prehistoric conflagration.

Reserved::Reversed (the signs!)

The train filled up between Newark and Grantham and packs to a jam in Peterborough. The air-con now seems to have ceased and the carriage is bordering on uncomfortable. Two hours of the journey gone, we should be hitting the M25 soon! Clammy!

I arrived around 3:30: Haslemere on a lovely summers day, was shown around a delightful camp by Justin(the catering manager). We detoured to my room for the evening.

I was walked to the accommodation block:

temporary and horrible

cargo containers

baking like lizards

in the mid afternoon sun.

Smelly, small and forgotten: far from the living ‘Live Children’ crowd…

…I am now flying through




substations en route to

Reading, Birmingham, Shrewsbury

Another PGL that has been promised to have better accommodation.

Currently I’m in an energy sapping Reading station writing for my connection to Shrewsbury. Too warm for no air con on!

Standing too close to the blink of a solar flare.

It is the temperature that words burn up.

Too tired again.

We’re all going to die in this heat.

A cloud can’t come fast enough.

Rain on us. Need to relax.


The engine rocks turning over and lights go on, finally the heat is abated as we set off(four stops). Insane voices direct instructions to find the correct seating for coach D – someone is out of place.

How many times do you find chewing gum under a seat, play with it briefly contemplating the journey, then stop in shock?

Quick self sustain break

Birmingham: New Street;

Legends of Burger king and Açai juice.

Our train sets off for the last leg to sunny

Shrewsbury: looks like rain now.

I am flagging limply

Dangling supine.

Arrived at final destination: PGL Boreatton Park, which is simply massive; capacity 1450 inc. staff. Never knew such places existed. It was once a manor house, then a correctional facility for unruly boys before its current façade.

Not sure. Nice kitchen, but a bit of desperation too from PGL.

Spoke to the centre manager Anthony.



What can I offer PGL.

Knowledge desire and ability,



OK so I’ve a 3 month contract until end of September. I start Monday. Can I get some funds off job centre for relocation. Cost of travel. Tax credits, etc.  As I’ll be slumming it for 90 odd nights. Doubt it!

Am I alone being convinced that young and impressionable girls are being brainwashed by Close-Up style mags: this week boys by numbers and bridesmaid stories. Natural breasts and mogadonic Alan Carr. Fashion tips and where to spend the Credit Cards!

‘Vipers noses, aphids in aspic…’ sings our trolley wheedling host on the Arriva Trains service to Milford Haven.

I forgot that I had a long weekend of alcohol carnage and today I suffer the long journey, 4 legs, which means I won’t be bothered with alcohol for a little time here at PGL land?

London Underground

The Truth about existence line

Brian Cox is not only a Scottish actor line

we would all avoid tax if we knew how line

party political growth line

gallows pole line

string them up line

‘O O O O that Shakespearian Rag—

It’s so elegant

so intelligent’ line

stick with me on this line.

long arm of the law line.

yard arm line.

a stitch in time line.

strictly political motive line.

Pretty Vacant sounds to me like pretty va-cunt line.

why does tuna make me retch line.

and Marmate is not for everyone line.

teatime line.

Pukka food line.

4 and 20 blackbirds line.

thin line.

thick line.

long line.

short line.

nice line.

awful line.

auto-logical line.

just stop-starting line.

we always pretend line.

in line.

the line.

head line.

sub line.

life line.

flat line.

mar line(an Australian housewife line).


CCTV is an invasion of privacy line.

we have nothing to fear but fear itself line.

the far side of the line.

sad line.


we’ll Boycott the line.

LBW line.

not cricket line.

not for turning line.

Alan Turing line.

in time line.

a pretty ugly line

marginal line.


stop this crap about line.

I thought I was fine line.

help! we’re stuck next to an authentic a Steel Band line.

slightly bent line.

Doppler effect line.

stop playing that triangle line.

raisin’ hell line.

an other line.

I need to stop before my nose bleeds line.

not always cottage cheese on your potato line.

just because it contains real fruit doesn’t mean its good for you line.

Skyywalker line

(not Skywalker) line.

spoof line.

triple choc chip line.

a fine line.

bullet-proof line.

invincible line.

come again line.

flesh out the interesting parts of my life line.

with Ultrabrite, my teeth they are so white and so clean line.

we’ve changed the taste of Coke line.

warcrimes line.

everyone died line.

burnt out wreak line.

the BBC News is no longer on at nine line.

I heard it through grapevine line.

this is not a thoroughfare line.

this is my life line.

over the line.

this car alarm is absolutely useless line.

dime line.

believe in Islam, sign up to die line.

off the coast of Peru line.

oh he’s such a nice boy line.

feeble line.

driven into frozen winter shit line.

what these lines!

the Beatles and not the Rolling Stones line.


chavs rounded up and then shot line.

Burberry? – nuffsaid line.

you haven’t listened to a word I’ve said line.

no mum line.

we have no idea where line.

your loss is our gain line.

WMD line.

regime change line.

last twist of the knife line.

I am beginning to get ‘it’ line.

this irony is the last line.

any old iron line.

‘Why, after I have cut the egg i’ the middle, and eat

up the meat, the two crowns of the egg. When thou

clovest thy crown i’ the middle, and gavest away

both parts, thou borest thy ass on thy back o’er

the dirt: thou hadst little wit in thy bald crown,

when thou gavest thy golden one away. If I speak

like myself in this, let him be whipped that first

finds it so’ line.

with the ends missing line.

lost in space line.

if I think like this just you wait til you see how I dine line.

1 more line.

just the 2 of us line.

3 is a magic line.

the holy hand grenade of Antioch line.

human-fly line.

the beginning of the end line.

that old y2k line.

the end of the world line.

we’re now in line.

you doubt me line.

twenty times a day line.


is it bugging you yet line.


pull cord to inflate line.

just beyond East Keswick turning and straight on line.

because the lady loves milk tray line.

Samwise Gamgee was gay line.

enough gold as I could eat line.

buggered line.

I like it that way line.

pink on the fringes line.

customers serviced line.

why? line.

where did all the love go line.

I am just killing time line.

this shop is crap line.

you & I line.

is this the end of the line.

I can see the sea line.

Morden sounds macabre line

Please leave knives in your luggage line.

end of line?

…and it just fades away line…



The snow fell heavy last night as I, wrapped up exceedingly warm, and walked towards the Adelphi, Hunslet Road. I set out at 7pm to meet up with a walking group who were meant to be at The Palace, next to Leeds parish church, between 8pm and 8:30pm, and decided to delve in there before arriving for another MeetUp event (my second this week).

Passing ASDA house on my left, crossing over towards Leeds Bridge House – Leeds’ nod to Broadway, NYC – the calm of the journey and the welcome from the instantly likeable Scottich barman: genuine conversations about trivial things as I explained I had a bad neck from a terrible night and he’d slept on the floor in his daughter’s room because she’d had a bad night. He served me an ice cold pint of Czech Kozel Pivo – a malty creamy Světlý from Velké Popovice just east of Prague. Once the bar emptied a little of post-work clients, and before Leeds Friday evening ‘townie’ crowd descended, I sat in a corner and looked around the bar. The Adelphi is a memorial pub for its artisan flavour and the modern, lime like, twist of modernity. Captured is the Victorian splender and a designers paradise. The 4% Světlý gave me a refreshing and welcoming hand into my first Friday night out in Leeds since moving back. I’d decided to have a clean alcohol free month, but I confess the boredom got to me after the second weekend when I drank ‘far far’ too much Friday, Saturday and Sunday!

Leaving The Adelphi to find another welcome pub on route I walked along Dock Street passed the bar on the right Glenn, Martin and I used quite often – Nick’s Brasserie (now replaced by Ciao Bella Bar & Restaurant) – during that summer when they had a happy hour and the sun shone most of the time. Next to that is the Pin (not bothered) and Dock Street Market with its excellent artisan bakery on site. I crossed the river Aire at the Oracle ( the Oracle and the Adelphi on the same road!) and ended on Kirkgate at the door of The Duck and Drake. The streets were silent and I felt relaxed as I crossed the threshold. Another helpful barman and maid and a well-informed client: a brewer who knew most micro breweries in the north and was a fan of Theakston’s XB too. I tucked in to a pint of Vienna, a Vienna Malt inspired cask lager produced Revolution’s Brewing Co of Whitworth, West Yorkshire. A rouge coloured pint with a intense malty headiness and a mild hop influence that developed on my palate as a grower. The Brewers have melded their love of music and beer into a symbiosis that is quasi train-spotter reverential and perfectly charming – if Andy Votel had a brewer he’d probably… All good stuff in the D&D.

I crossed back over the road, passing a few people waiting for the Mega Bus huddled under the eves of the buildings freezing into the night; one was holding a leopard spotted hot water bottle close, the grandeur of Leeds Parish Church and onto the nights meeting at The Palace – a Nicholson’s Pub. From the first minute I disliked the clients within, a heavy-set of swearing middle-aged working collective all along the bar, which was possibly 4 deep at points. The bar staff looked under a disagreeable amount of pressure and, although they had some interesting products on sale, I couldn’t get served. Finally, once I had been alighted upon, the barmaid poured me a Harviestoun Old Engine Oil Porter – blowing my expectations! There was no caress from the effort quickly done with an inch of head, beer pump without a sparkler so I assumed it was very fobby. I returned the product to have it topped up – I don’t think any patron should ever be expected to have to return the product to get it topped up! It feels like a cunning plan to increase the quantity of product squeezed out of every cask barrel? The product had a treacle oily thickness and was lush. Malty and honeyed. Deeply filled with a generous, sweet and memorable mouth feel. Top one Harviestoun… even if the pub it was delivered from was utter crap! I waited until 8:45pm for the people from the walking group to arrive getting more anxious with the number of male testosterone filled, alcohol fuelled. angry glowering red-eyed thugs. I’d been warned by the brewer in the D&D that The Palace wasn’t a great locale and I realised he was quite correct. I could wait no longer for the people so set off for beery solace elsewhere; leaving the ghosts of the Leeds Walking Meetup Group to ponder this crappy soulless pub all to themselves.

In 2 hours high hopes were brought crashing to the ground; the reality of Leeds ‘townies’ who take over a pub for an hour with their colossal banter and insidious starring eyes led me back to the only safe haven I could think of, as the Duck and Drake now had live rock music playing loudly across Kirkgate, North Bar and its excellent, if expensive, beers. Cheers for the last beer of that evening. Sanctuary  salvaging the savaging I’d had in The Palace: Magic Rock Dark Arts: Surreal Stout(6%).

I had travelled from a Czech Pivo via a ‘Vienna malt‘ styled cask lager and a quality Scottich porter to a climax of roasted malt and hop hopping happiness produced in Huddersfield.

Night done. Not for the first time I am not feeling The Palace and I will not bother with that establishment again soon.

The road to NOW – 2nd Edition.

I’ve had a comprehensive writers block during 2012. I do hope it quite literally fucks off in 2013…

I want to clear out my mind, refresh and attempt to find a new me. The continual monologue of doubts and doom that have been clouding my days must become a thing of the past. To not be controlled by the mind and to feel relaxed in my own company. To be aware of the reflections of the world around me and smile at the stuff. Throughout my thoughts around this subject is the circling threat of my dire consciousness: a thing that wants to interrupt any flow of creatively productive work and put instead inside me a gnawing pain and mental threats that should be really unimportant to the beauty of the world around me.

Now as I write this I am returning to Leeds from a journey to Wetherby undertaken to collect another selection of items for my physical comfort and to add to the feeling of retraction out of LS22 – I literally have moved half a mental distance away to LS11. A distance and a new locale I feel will draw a line away from the struggles to raise my head from the solitary pillow prior to 9.00 am. The warmth that traps me there; Wetherby is like the womb – I have crept back into the origins of my existence to retreat from the possibility of moving forwards. I am still attached to the umbilical cord as every single attempt to move away from there has been thwarted by the mind I have been beholden to most my adult life. The tightening circles of emotions within Wetherby make for a very unhappy feeling; constricting, chocking and smothering any passion I want to have for the world we inhabit.

I responded to the distractions of New Year’s Eve up in FrytonNorth Yorkshire by grasping against the chocking hands I’d suffered in Wetherby for a long time. It is strange to think I blame Wetherby for the way I struggle with the world. I blame its one dimensionality : one street fundamentally absent of anything remotely engaging with the world beyond its A58/A1 round-about. When I walk the dog from my door and strike out, beyond it’s invisibly tall almighty barriers, into the surrounding countryside I want to shout out for the sense of escape I get alone beyond the tensions of all roads leading back to Braine Road.

When I went to bed at 1.00 pm New Year’s Day I needed no more of the past 2 years. The waste I’d played in my life and the wasting influence I was having on my mind, body and ‘soul’. With a finality I ate and drank to poison my veins and corroded my neural transmitters: with a blanket of ethanol and fats. I laid in the hot tub and starred up at the free stars sparkling their glory down upon me and allowed the frigid gathering breeze to blow clear my dust covered creativity and traversing self. They may laugh that I got nude in the pool, but I felt I was freeing myself to the universe and leaving behind the paranoia and the voices in my head. I lay there between contemplations of drowning myself and running screaming in to the freezing cold night to sink in the drowned lands we’d discovered on the second day as we, grumbling, marched across the barren wind swept valley between Slingsby and Hovingham.

We had arrived sodden and thoroughly disparate at the Malt Shovel. I led the way bravely sinking ankle deep, soaked and muddied across the route with words of ‘this isn’t the right way’ ‘do you know where you’re going’; I didn’t care I wanted to walk to forget the year I had just hated. I would have walked daubed in brown and grey and dripping wet forever; with the rivulets running down my face I thought I’d written nothing in a year of any merit. Nothing. I’d vanished to a place I’d not known since I could remember, whether the immature poetry of my youth or the angry ‘Jew-bucks’ vengeance of Street Lane and the B’ageists (the beige aged individuals – colourless pensioners and customers repeating colourlessness; the same blankness of the falling sands of time in a vast human aged hourglass) of Help the Aged, I had lost it all.

Daubed in mud like paint and wet to the skin I walked towards another alcohol fuelled afternoon knowing this wasn’t what I wanted at all, but unable to find another way to feel the days meaning surrounded by the sounds of Richard, Jason, David and Daniel; the dog(Chester) was silent, fretting against being unable to drive to this short space in time separated from The Hay BarnFryton. We dwelt in the moment before walking back, one pint later, along the dry main road to our happy huge barn; four days and three nights in the grip of fear.

I was asked by Dan J did I enjoy the days we spent at The Hay Barn? Perhaps? Sometimes, but not enough to return on the 1st of January feeling that £210 wasn’t well enough spent. Claire brought a book to read (Cheryl Cole: My Story) and made sure she dissolved into that consciousness at all times; I felt a certain jealousy and Daniel recalled our trip to Tenerife and The Riverside Chaucer – the single most important piece of fiction ever written IMHO – which I brought along to remind me of the brilliant creative universe outside the repugnance of the tourist Canary Islands in 1996. I did enjoy sharing the time with people I have known for ever…

At the time of our sojourn over New Year I had not enjoyed reading to the point of not reading anything much. When I did I pick up a book I felt nothing and can recall nothing of those I consumed recently. It is true I was simply more interested in the fresh, young and nubile female librarian . She has a thing for a definite shade of green: not an earthy green, but a slightly bluer green. I have currently been trying to engage her in a quest for the perfect novel and moaned that the current book group run in Wetherby is covering a novel appealing to a feminine persona – ‘where are the sci-fi book groups in Leeds?’ She didn’t know; the cold shoulder of dislike struck me and I haven’t been back since prior to Christmas.

I knew that 2013 has to different and I must take control of myself. Last year was a waste of effort and came nowhere near to the expectations I hold in personally. I was languishing in self pity and forming thoughts of suicide and how this might be accomplished simply. While retreating towards disengagement, doubting any smiles and feeling no inner calm. I was tossing and turning in bed, never switching off. With the 24 job roles I have applied for this year I am consciously attempting to work to engage with other human beings. Yesterday I attended The HopGranary Wharfe quiz on Tuesday with a couple of guys from the ‘Leeds City Social Group‘. We three came second.

(I warn you to stand-by for some thoughts which might offend and what I write here is hard to put into clear words.)

Here I am sat in the Starbucks, within the corporate bulk of Brigewater Place, and I am trying to accept myself for some of strain which seems to be assailing me here! To stay positive against the comings and goings, the opening and closing of all doors; whether the toilet to my right and its intense rush of screaming hand drier or the blast of prickling icy air that invades from both of the interior and exterior entries; it is an Arctic night ahead. It so invades my free thoughts.

Equally I always prejudice Starbucks against for its corporate Jewishness, and not its tax evasion. As I continually turn over in my mind what is happening to us in the west as we are continually engulfed by corporate capitalism in a society which seems dominated and controlled by vast Jewish oligarchy. I am not in my opinion racist, but I realise that I can not judge anything positive in the vast network of businesses touched by the hands of Jews, people who seem appear to me angry, tyrannical and obsessed with wealth and control. Oh how I rail against feeling this way! Somehow I feel we are being possessed by a social entity I find repugnant: a defining concept of being Jewish that envelopes any other secondary function of that race. The knowledge that every action is directed by a belief in an inherited justification of being the chosen race. I hate all religions with a passion, but I believe how Judaism manifests itself in both secular and religious existence is a singular menace to the individual and individuality.

Once when I walking through Leicester Square a Hasidic Jew walked up to me an told me he couldn’t eat the ham sandwich I was currently contemplating and a having said that, followed by a surreal snigger, as he continued shuffling through the square: I must confess it was a very average individually chosen ham sandwich!

Whatever happened to The Crash Test Dummies after God Shuffled His Feet?

Jim asked me if I was a Communist on Saturday to which I answered ‘No I am an Anarchist‘, by anarchism I refer to the Wikipedia defined:

Anarchism is generally defined as a political philosophy which holds the state to be undesirable, unnecessary, or harmful,

I think the state in the modern world is overwhelming and too large for humanity to find its reality without its bureaucratic edge. Already the Helicopter crash of this morning is being seen as a possible result of some ‘error’, some ‘ fault’ of the ‘human’ aspect of the mechanical vehicle – No sheer accident which at first was thought to be a terrorist attack. An enquiry will no doubt result and the findings will either find fault with the crane, the helicopter, the pilot, the weather or perhaps London in 2013?

I saw on the BBC weather forecast that the weekend looks like proper snowball fighting conditions will prevail shortly; the guys in North Bar should be very happy with that one? Sunday night was a damp squib. Now thanks to the BBC weather centre everyone will be on tenterhooks until the weekend hits and nothing/something/everything happens to enrich our lives! I wish for months of heavy snow followed by opiates of forgetfulness:


‘Winter kept us warm, covering          5

Earth in forgetful snow…’ (TS Eliot/The Wasteland)

Of all the poetry I was forced to read, hear, discuss in my school years only T.S. Eliot made any complete sense: the remainder was too allegorical or mysterious or subjective. The Wasteland is clear as day. To me it strikes a similar chord to the chaos of I Am The Walrus. Years ago I interpreted the:

‘Oompah! Oompah! Stick it up your jumper!’

mantra as:

‘Fucked up! Fucked up! Everyone’s fucked up!’

but only under the influence of LSD circa 1990. The world was fucked up in 1922, 1967 and still suffers the same dreadful tragedy. I think John Lennon ties King Lear in with this freaked out ending as that is a play complete with its unnatural splitting of the kingdom and the resultant craziness of KL, the ironically sane Fool and the falsely crazy Poor Tom…


It is late to be awake. Fear fills my thoughts. I toss and turn unable to grasp the sweet nothing of sleep. I fear sleep as it doesn’t resolve my evils.

From the next room my insomnia spreads like a dark tide and the dog wakes. He pleads with me to end this night. Perhaps I am not tired as I have nothing tiring my bones.

The alcohol I continue to turn to leaves me blank. We talk of why the heart has vacated the rooms we stalk. When the heart always lacked in this unfeeling tomb.

The previous morning I looked to change. I woke to seek honest wholesome oats and shake off this fattened me, but the one I thought I loved ridiculed me for thinking I might change my current ways. Some reminding vengeance.

After a heavily curtailed walk I returned to sofa and repeats. Repeated viewing with repeated adverts threatening my search for inner calm.

The books I read seem to take away my limited time so I read without a sense of the joy words once spread in my hopes and dreams. I battle to continue this thankless task.

Another night I wonder how to begin to unravel my life just so I can end this nothing I hold close. Another night I dream of running away to the south to linger on a beach watching my time recede.

Another me? 2013 appears but the knorring reminders of my own current doom suggest no route to convulse out this puzzled maze. Where is the other that will save my mind?

So as I feel my chest heave and a bad diet digestion congesting my soul all feelings of mortality conspire to break me at this silent starring time. The pain of losing the previous better me is clearly molesting the chambers of my mind and beating of my heart.

The wind rises in the distance and another strike of rain figures into view. Can it take me away beyond this black and white blanket and deliver me stumbling to a colourful valley. Or atleast send me snoring from you?



I have been told that I need a bit of publicity during November and December to create as much interest as possible in the two pronged business opportunity I am hoping to be able develop a business plan for in the new year.

I love the power Simon has to get what he wants in confidence and security!

It’s true I am learning a lot, but I continue to feel like I am ‘standing on the shoulders of giants‘ and it’ll take me a long time to ‘get it’

The truth of the matter currently finds wine thoughts taking a back stage while I ponder what I am doing to do for the the remainder… The tenth will be fun, but I am very anxious to make December into the moment when it all snaps into place?

From February 2013 I will no longer in law be considered a bankrupt so I can finally start shaping my commercial future? This will require some real ‘planning’ and a business case.


miss my form.

very dull and evocative is some current me. suddenly my edge of willing regurgitation of rampant occurring thoughts has hit a dense nothingness. oh worrisome me.

time to wake up from this malaise.

something happened this year.

platform 8b

Quick dog walk, a change of clothes and hop on the 99 to rotten old Leeds to start this crazy 4 day wine-athon. Look out London. Panicked when I saw that the trains had all been cancelled due to signalling issues.

What is a freebie as a consequence of being held up in Stevenage station for 4 hours was almost another East Coast catastrophes. Phew it isn’t. The trains are running from mine. 12:15 to London. Let us get going.

The amount of confusion simple numbering seems to confuse so many people. Surreal.

Hiccuping baby, over loud ladies, rattling Asians; where are the geese and goats?

On the plus side…London.

I decided I needed to travel facing forward. so many people so many rambling conversations. Head phones…given up my cherished backwards traveling E48A.

The cyclic nature of babies is very tedious and Emma’s is about due!

Chateau Imperial Szamorodni Dry 2002 to wow our olfactory systems

After you’ve been out walking wild with a four legged friend and spent the entire month of April wetter than a Mermaid’s bathing costume it is nice to be able to sit and unwind digesting a ‘flor-ful’ little known Hungarian wine/grape extravaganza ‘Szamorodni’, courtesy of my Hungarian friends at Malux Hungarian Wine and Food? The zinging sharpness honed within the deliberate oxidation in this amber toned ‘flor’ dedicated charmer and my gaze evolved into a jaw locking nose fixing tendency that was highlighted by the sherries willfully wafting and suggesting the depths that we would likely go if we had elongated noses… So where and what is Tokaji? A protected appellation in northern Hungary famous for heavily botrytized Furmint grapes: a grape with the unusual ability to grow a new skin over its exposed flesh once the noble rot has done its damage. A wine that is a ‘kin’ of Sauternes and other dessert wines. But Szamorodni Dry itself is a style that reminds the nose and mouth of the vin Jaune of the Jura, France or the amontillados of Jerez, Spain except it has a little more pronounced sugar than the typical Palamino Sherries of Andalusia and perhaps more intensity in the ‘golden’ yellow drifting tears that lash up the sides of the ISO glass. What indeed is this ‘Szamorodni’, after we’ve done all our sweet justice to amontillado sherry and the tongue twisting grasping and suggesting of an oloroso then we say ‘like an Hungarian sherry?’ – only if you are only low fog minded… but then if you’re high minded, like me, you would be happy to chip, chip, chip away at that respected Spanish DOC? Well I am 108 years old, but this crazy natural flowery succulent sharpness makes me need to rescue the native knowledge of Hungarian wine skills. The thoughts of the Szamorodni make me feel relieved that nothing with noting is known unless we have traveled with brevity on paths we usually dare not skip along…worth every drop.”

bank holiday

So negative another Easter.
I am home for my 4 days
drunk and fattening up
this was me in 2003; again
when i was mad and fatter.
Those days in chaos of zero
Activity and now the dangle
Wine, methods and traps
tomorrow final bank joke
Tuesday work and friend
more fun than tours of nowhere
my murder at delirium tremens
focus my 40 years into 60+
so i digest wolf berries to churn
and riddle and reduce girth
nothing simplicity can maintain
a broken empty grid without mirth

Sofar Spring 2012

It’s been a beautiful few days. Spring has truly sprung. I was out with the dog enjoying the pleasures of the warm air. There were a number of tortoise butterflies in the fields yesterday.

I’ve had just three glasses of wine ,since OTT on Sunday afternoon, all week.

Stephen mentioned I sounded out of breath today. My health has taken a hitting since I’ve not chefed. I drink too much, eat a lot of very poorly nutritionally unbalanced food stuffs and don’t burn as much energy as while not slaving over a hot pan.

It looks like I am left with nowhere to run with either my skin or ma. I am left with no option but to find my own place. In little more than 3 weeks i can feel freedom coming on strong.

What has happened? A sudden fuel crisis created by cretin  conservative MP’s. Queues of fearfully stupid papping OAP’s making money rich energy conglomerates richer, idler and more conceited. Get rich quickly seasons of madness.

3 pints in the Crown where man is challenged. There are no good hookers, but badly balding beer bellied slow shuffling grunting facsimiles. It’s cheap beer, but it’s hideously malformed. One eye on me and one eye on the other side…

Clearly better off not seeing those who returned for our ‘years'(except SR and SW) 1989 to 1992 reunion. Even the girl who organised it wasn’t there and someone puked around 8pm


A case of chicken and egg effect? I drink because I make no impact but then I make no impact because I drink. I come out sober hoping to find anyone to engage with but find everyone in a huddle and engaged with those they know. I bounce incongruous from element or ectoplasm or the fine molecular division between our dedicated similarity. The force between our conglomerates. The resistance in our silken souls. The epidemis. Its just me rebounding against. Disparities. Jutxapoint. Verisimilitude. Dylan Thomas was a feature, yet a drunk, but integrated.

And ‘if you’re in a battle you need guys in the trenches you can trust’ is why I point my privates at you: sons of a silly person. That means you’ll sell your sorry soul for Artic roll. Twat because 99% of wankers live in Wetherby.

What kinds of persons arrive from a ‘club’ but in their haste forget the very essence of the club they already originate in?

There must be more to life than…anti-depressants.

So the doctor’s receptionist says to me: your prescription is up for review so I can’t issue you a repeat. What do you expect? That by this morning I feel like a drug hinged loser who needs a mainline hit to
get me away from a life of twats?

So was it my brain resolving backwards? I often wonder what disguise I was portraying in my climate of anger?

In a world where only the crusts are left I will take the crust.

Too much

I vomited again :: again just like the first time feeling like it’s the last time. I was on some ultimate mission to take in as much alcohol as was physically possible and damn the consequences. I sat in oblivion knowing the day was ruined. Hiding in plain sight.

The Faux Thief and The Faux Free

Oh, you are ruthlessly selfish. Created in a bank: a banker with faux labour liberal attitude hiding a pair of opaque black obsidian wasp-like eyes taking all in and returning no quarter. She would turn on all in her head long spreading misery.  Miser ‘finger less’ gloves, broken nailed and scratching palm greed. Not liberal. Fascist. I wouldn’t trust her ever. Mother sits there in her shabby seem-stress giving lower class tarnished openness. When all that happens is you get taken for a ride. Never again. You produced a classic broken loveless parental embrace as your offspring span away in to self-destruction and here you are speaking in middle classed riddles. Begone thief.

‘X’ marks the spot of the crossed conversation. Women talking over/under the tones of their men booming loud voices. I now understand why the sexes speak within differing frequencies. So we can speak simultaneously and annoy everyone else trying to enjoy a quiet Sunday morning. Two women with banal middle class North Leeds accents and two men blasting spittle and nasally Irish and Lancashire. Bloody Rugger. Bloody middle class accents and here come the waxed jacket landed gentry type. A inadequately posh type gaping wide teeth and at the brow with tweed cap at jaunty angle and welly-bobs. I must escape.I live in a landscape of faux-dom.

Freedom is the lie we all believe in our rigid clawed hands and blank straying eyes.


Gardening. Ripping up dead vegetation and cutting to new shoots. Snoops wants to be involved with the process. Biting the rotten stems. What does he think he’s doing? Everything he does gives us immense pleasure. My hands felt dry, but it felt good to root i loved the undergrowth. I’ve not insect scratched yet; boon. 400ml of Ampakama Viognier between 1930 and 2100. Control. Interesting saline salty aftertaste and round jelly bean viscosity.
Feeling a little viscous myself.

After being relatively composed at 2100 I decided to jaunt into Wetherby. 3 pints. Back for Question Time: Janet Street-Porter class. Scottish Conservative unable to think for herself(party whip). Last glass of classy Viognier.

For research purposes i have to drink 1 of each to really say these are as good as they should be. 20 green bottles…

So far mas des marques, soli, prosecco rosso, cõtes du provançe, both Ampakama intenso and Viognier, seceteurs red. All are great. Deeply moved by Malbec and Les Silex.

Bus Queue death

From door to doorstep back and forth via Quarry Lane and biscotti, 2*2 espresso, waiting while the river flows over the confines and wheel bearings man argues over-biting ‘has-been’ and puma attired bus wasted wasters threaten a frown too far. A nice moment getting charged on caffeine and almond bakes before the complacent barrier of death’s bus queue makes the journey hazardous seem. Ten apologetic minutes might feel stretched ad finitum, but fur merry friend waiting to gallop upon that heath and rugged wilds. Where once men and women of the clothe did run their course this lent to go on pilgrimages and gathered in the corn or apple falls by hallowed eve.
To walk over towards Sicklinghall and behind Woodhall back through Linton Common, Millbeck and Collingham Wood I notice we lag by 2pm and most footfalls speak of getting back for a recharge of our bodies before you return to your first home: 11 miles.

Wetherby is apathy: where pubs were once fun there is now stagnant piss water and un-brushed linoleum.

Zinfandel is still alcohol

Today (22nd Feb 2012) is the first time ever I’ve tried a Californian red Zinfandel (Morrisons, £9.99: Ravenwood) and found it to be a very pleasant deep, heady and fruity red wine. Now having drunk close to a whole bottle I am reminded of an aniseed or liquorice as part of a very lengthy finish: My palette is pumped full of plump berry fruit. I would have to say that @DanJWatts’ recommendation was a very good recommendation and I suddenly feel a bit ashamed that I considered all Californian/American wines to be appallingly mass produced crap, but like the beer coming from the States the wine is really getting there. I guess that this is a result of my attitude being set by the cheap Blossom Hill white Zinfandel that is served 2 cheap ostentatious old women.

I am on a diet and I have managed to eat healthily however I am still having problems not drinking: every time I leave work I intend not to drink and find myself drinking. It is appalling to realise that I have spent since my 16th birthday drinking! Why did it ever become such a feature of my existence? Somehow it allows me to forget something, but if I knew what it was I was hiding from I might be able to come to terms with this addiction and deal with it? It is a shame because now I am 40 years old and think I have been drinking since I was 16 which is over 24 years? I have ruined my bank balance and my health in the rush to forget myself in alcohol!

Snoops has his head in my lap and is asleep snoring quite contently while I need to get me outta here…the moment of madness has damaged me again!

Japanese holiday

5 photos of a lizard basking on a rock
4 of a bus station midway to Rovinj
3 of an octogenarian muttering ‘it don’t cost much’
2 parts of the same brain arguing there must be more
1 of the empty soul you attempt to fill with click click.
0 bang bang you are dead, but still Japanese.

Pula is passing. Got to Split…

Galeb, galeb, flying south.
So many miles journeyed in 2 days.
On a wing with the breeze
And arriving in Spilt to sail away.

Up at 5:45 and into the Adriatic swell by 7am
Rocking towards Zadar and next connection.
Hopping on a bus and just in time for coach and a tiring journey
I am an obvious pong and have barbarous moustache and roadway junkie air.
In between mid point of the coast and leaving the mainland while money suffices and more funds surfaces
Like a wrecked bounty the ship is at sea.

Arrived in Vis at 9pm. Long and exhausting day. How I managed this I’ll never know. Managed to get a reasonable 400kuna 4 night stay in an apartment. Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth. Was gonna refuse, but thought hell why do that. Hopefully made some friends from the two whose ma and pa own numerous places on the island. 

First wash of the trip is engaged. Now I want to chill. Cooking my own food from tomorrow.
There is karaoke tonight. Hmm. It’s Saturday night. Let’s see.
Saw Italian:Trieste cards on the huge ferry out of Split.

Amazing swell this morning and people seasick. Girl from tourist info I’d a Bitch…had a laugh. 
Didn’t particularly like the vibe from the girl running the hostel in Pula.
Torrential rain made yesterday a bit shite. Campsite after here I feel…

Got vodka from 2 Geordie girls…invited them back! Shame…got work on Monday.


Walked the long walk from campgermany to Rovinj.
Coffee to wake up and tapas in Maistra, olives, Istrian ham and artichoke salad.
No sign of girl in Finlandia No. 1 so can’t ask her to marry me.

Delboy Hvarska selling Calvin Klein’s little chance of them being the real deal. More likely Kelvin Clain’s.
So many Europeans start the day with a fag and a beer.
Women smoke with real gusto. More often than men.

Mild to left. Ice cream to right. Gelato. More! I need more…

Calvin klein
Clean vilik
Cleak livin
Clean livik

Will purchase another caffé and gelato.

Festival and sardines.

So half of me is ć, č or ž and the other is Lieb von englander, de zein. Mein gott.

I am collecting litres of wine. Table wine. Everyday wine. Local wine. Rustique vino. 

But a wine festival… Cool as.

Tihana to

Komiza. Vis.

Trošt Silvano.

A dozen sardines. The best least fishy ever. Maybe it kept my hangover at bay? Got back to tent. Slept well.

Wine in my sails

Quattro Stagioni
So far they show zero smiles towards tourists.

Just did garlick soup followed by pizza. Not had a hostile linguistic conversation until now. Okay so Croatian must be the most complicated language. Right. Write ‘it must be!’
Obviously it is the hardest. That’s because English is very easy…arrogant!

Internet cafe VIP A-MAR. 6kn zen minuten. Second post card shipped to Ross on Wye. Don’t ask me why…Sallyann perhaps? Cup of coffee time? Yes.

Nope. Vino. Local and current vintage.
Feel like I am putting weight on a little bit. However I am walking masses and not eating too badly perhaps I am? Cheese and sausages.
Wolfdog in the yacht yard. Huge and monstrous.
I am thinking with a crazy deutschen accent, bitte.

Dobra juah

Dra gon ya
Por to rož
Po reč
Krun či či
Limski kanal

Salvo at Galeb looks like a caricature of Enoch Powell…

Japanese tourists are so so stereotypical. We arrive at a shocking shocking bus station in Poreč and there is a reason to take a photo? Getaway!

On the campsite trail. I come upon my first naturist camp. 3km from Poreč.

Rotel tours –
Porton biondi

How many days shall I stay here. I have to chill out tomorrow and stuff. Then perhaps move on by third night. It needs to be value for money. Maybe move the tent to a less bumpy plot or get a better under roll.

Actually I feel better already. The facilities are good. I am the cleanest I have been in 2 or 3 weeks. And that includes Ross and Cambridge.

Right. Jobs today. Get to a supermarket and save money. 

Just spotted Paul Scott aged 65! Exactly! But Croatian.


Found a small supermarket. But adequate. Need to go back to campsite. One last coffee then back to campsite. Town closes from 2 until 5 for siesta.
Internet in main square is 10kn for 50mb.

My writing is banal. Whenever I don’t find life difficult I stop groaning and can’t paint, draw, write or compose. Today is a good day. I realise this.

Rovinj has a festival tomorrow. Should be fun.

Charging your iPhone in the randomise of coffee cup drench
Caffeine and amps meet with amphoras and umbrella
Codeine and kava to numb the pain and swallow up radio tension
Coming in from the sun I can’t escape the meaningless drivel
I’m itching to get back to forested opiate rival
To this hell driven succabus whore waiting pelvic glissando
Who chatters with teeth ripped from a face of beauty
Our languid sylvian dream protects with codex placed mouth
Speak a truth that none here may understand nor answer
Regardless how many logs are chopped within
And dragged screeching to be made radiogram antique wood effect
Chattering like a pit of lost souls battling to outcompete.

Followed from Cornwall to Croatia by the same asthmatic gulls.
Germans start with bier and Hvasska start with cigarettes.
One is conquerering the other in a tyranny of stereotypical pivo
And the residents are consumed into a smoking death.

Last night I saw a meteor and today I saw a flying fish
While on the quay dock hands throw a new catch to the town.
A vast catch.
Five trucks, varying sizes, full to the rafters with sardines.

2 scots both obsessed with the exchange rates. Don’t you get it… Live within the profits of others!

Piran, late night melancholy.

So I’m either working in Slovenia until the end of October early November or off to Pula tomorrow afternoon, which is in Croatia. This would be sad, however Piran is now a lot quieter. I maybe bartered for a reduced rate from Hostel Alibi if I do stay. But one never knows. And maybe a scooter for the month. But I’d much prefer a live in position in Hotel Bernardin. Simplifying the whole stay more. But I’m not too concerned.

The sun set is awesome. But I forgot that I had seen one over the ocean a few times before. I’ve never witnessed a sunrise. That would be done in the east of England. But predicting a day with no clouds in autumn will be hard I’m sure.
Next stop Dragonja on Croat/Sloveniani border prior to a bus to camp site recommended by the girl
I met on the coach from Trieste to Koper.

The purple lighthouse that René took off from last night is flashing red
This is suddenly a much more relaxed place. It deserves respect. I spy a flag of St. Andrews.

No one at home. Bumped into 3 englanders. 1 Stoke on Trent, 1 Kent and one posdammer spatz munchen. 1 beer has the chance to ruin a resolution. Shocking.

I am re reading Machiavelli.

Galeb best seafood on this adventure.
Alsatian cousin best dog. I actually kicked a dog that was smaller than a pigeon this afternoon. When I did bump into 2 guys who run the scooter works. Craig and Natalie. How odd. He has a house in Croatia. And bikes and mopeds. Surprising how I meet others on my travels.

Big tit girl and another minute dog. Slovenia is micro dog listic…
Lots of huge tit girls with small face area. Large cheeks.
So back along the front to a bar with my name on it. Beer. That is a prefix to my first initial, but only if you rewind from the D. _beer_Daniel Joseph Sherburn.
Not happening today. I am becoming a town drunk. The clock chimes the hours and then the quarters. Cleverer and cleaverer. Cleaving me in the middle. The back segment of my brain overriding the forward section.

Hi germansch bye germansch. What did I do fruenlein? I can’t understand. Next stop kebab. Same 2 girls glued to the seat at the caffé. Hey it wasn’t  me it was always René. Should’ve guessed, oh René I am ph neutral today. No need to waste my time. Now Gorankja looks at me odd. Am I so odd. Chicken kebab heaven at 8:54pm on my final Piran evening and beer to amend me. Oh hell.
This is a none day.

Leaving Trieste

Last 2 hours in Trieste. Not a bad city. Most of the caffé workers are friendly, charming, humorous and hardworkers. Although it is easy to be ripped off for anything in this city. If you set the wrong scene or maybe they don’t like foreigners. I think the guy who ran the hotel on Via Ghega thought of English as a form of fascism. Not sure what means but it is interesting.

Loud Italian, louder than your average Italiano, – legea hoody – told forcefully to shush…grasps sports life. And already the dynamic is changed. Caffé excellsion. Should read caffé exclusion, but that brief noise is collapsed to zero.

James Joyce and a speaker of English that surprised my fumblings in her mother tongue. Very attractive who spent time in Florida, but not just eating oranges, I hope. I studied English should read il piccolo or profess io ho studioto. Did he speak fluent Italiano or struggle while undermining sublimely on the grande canal, piazza del point rosso, and the sky was azure as it must always be in Friuli. And even when the locals dislike the wind and say it’s so so cold today. Bonjourno said loud frego fredo not so sure. Prego?

You’re welcome. The pace of life is slower and more people amble to work than rush with head in hands.
I am ready to earn some readies but I think I need a home. James Joyce taught English in Pula. Can I too try this route?

Street sweep has a vacuum cleaner. I think that is the future. Actually if he becomes one with the machine he will feel less pain or the tedium of his reality. The largest floor surface to clear every day and that must deflate an ego.

Same fila clad Afro beggar. So pointless an existence. Looks frightened and seems to have forgotten there is more than a fragile palm with which to place long forgotten lirra.

Smoke smoke tourist bus watches the smokers. The novel character. More often women it seems. Are you a millionaire that scratches so despairingly on columned church and smokes so vigorously.

Another black beggar. They’re giving their culture a bad name. Goes to a customer and shoves pointless brochure. Enough to tell him get a life and stop haunting here.

When the sun comes out it pulses and I sweat. My head leaks.

Converse all-stars are profiting hugely in Trieste it appears. Undulant hoards roaming.

Fire ship on a practice run in the dock arcs of spray like fountains adding water to where no more is required. Now stopped. I thought at first it was an oil spraying black against the bright sunlit canal. Via Gioachino Rossini

Spar and banana, salami, now I am in the square opposite the stazione there is a statue to Elisabetta. Many vagrant and dirty pigeons. Rough looking type asked me to take a photo. Why I could never know. Homosexual tendencies or had an eye on my money? The dirtiness. Why not ask the several other people in the square. Went off to wank himself cross eyed no doubt. This is like an episode from Dubliners I swear. Let me eat my banana in pieces. Oh but saying that how much leaning have I just seen meander through this square. Oh heck I asked for that didn’t I.

Bus stazione destinazione Pirano. A half hour waiting. And I’ve decided the bouncer that held me down may’ve done this damage to my jaw. I suddenly recall him really pinning me down. I wondered how I also damaged my ribs. I fell down. That step. I got a bruised palm and a bruise on my shoulder and a graze on my elbow, but I didn’t tumble…hmm. He was choking me. And he tackled me to the deck. That boy didn’t hit me that hard.

Plymouth hoe.

Bus, train. Utters a waste time blurs.
Pork pie, cider bought and off we trot.
To a land we trust. Trust in love.
Train, train. Cutting through Cornwall
Southward bound. Not the past.
Future forward press fast forward.
Get me there on time. Promise made.
Brain, fuss. I think I burnt it fast.
Rush and stomp eating useless fruits.
No profit yielded saturated head.
Please make sure this lasts me!
2 chicks via South Africa.
Lush and fruity. Tanned to the limits!
From Frome Valley with apple kisses
Something will shake tonight.
Cool again at Liskeard pressing on.
Mason city blues cheers my head tight
Lessen the pressure as we fly
The 6 well dressed hens flutter by.
Walk, walk. Easiest and happiest.
But drunk on cheap vermouth cider.
Which must be good for Newquay?

Mind the gap in my mind
Gap the mind inside outside
Station awaiting train slightly
Drowsy and lightly damp.


Gucci or LV. Chanel. All Italian girls exhibit. Men equally it seems. And talk all talk. What are their conversations so animated towards. Pyrotechnic show of hands and body posture. Smoke on and on some of the most attractive women. On scooters? So many scooters not many vespas. Hardly a smile. But a slight upturned glance. Same wondering Afro selling what no one needs or wants. All day.
A trio playing accordions and battered trumpet. Wonders of the Via Del Ponte. Some patrons dance but have forgotten to pay the tune and now it recedes. Do they smile for strangers? Pretentious it might be but the bar is good. Guys who work it friendly and show respect to my lack of application speaking fruili. The municipal square has a fountain lacking water. It’s lacking a fundamental element in it’s design. I am tensed to ask acqua? Where is it, before being chased to the sea and lost to giant octopi. There is a natural pennilessness to the square. The grandest facade is very skin deep. Or surprised me that it doesn’t fall over on the wind. Likened to the false town built in blazing saddles. Ironically if it did I am stood just right to enter the second floor window unblemished. Ha ha. I cry that this is just so.
Why is there no water. Did they forget where the tap is put. All the statues now wait. A camper stance one could not pose to point in jest like a teapot. Here’s my spout. See that flag it hangs lipid in the gentle breeze @ 10:05. PM. Post mortem. I’ve gone to examine watery grave and find man at work: not with chisel but a silicon chip. So I sit and see all the girls in Ramone t-shirts and all star lows. Ubik as dolphins dressed like fish supporting cistern. What is the cause of so many stereotypes quoth the angel falling onto the rubble with misplaced steps. It is our continued fall from grace I replied. Are any here who choose or have no other loci due to age and musical persuasion. They will replace the cracked vases just left for here. 5 or 6 years of speeding freaks. And then – bang – no further rope to hang upon. Air guitar will become hands that murdered time when once we were just as happy to exist as separate longing folk. All we want now is to have and be seen the same while the smoke in our lungs is the same stuff all our precedence died while choking and drowning and spluttering. Now I plod and hopefully mow through a torrent of vainly built and seldom having a foundation and I ask how did the great Roman empire become so pointless and dull. Pinko bag is worn on kneck and capitalism is firmly in our homes.

From Ross to Cambridge

So 2nd Ross cider festival is over. And I am en-route to Cambridge.

Chelsea allcocks

Do all builders in university towns feel like Jude on arriving in Oxford? Or me. Being lesser?

Garde ta foy

Knitting square, circle or trapezium…

Jude the clown walked into an Italian restaurant known for it’s clownish behaviour. A simple dinner served by beauty and simple symmetry. Ravioli and rich sauce flavoured by a knitting frenzied group. Monthly, weekly or daily I knever knew. Clever hand art not cleaver to my eyes. All times I see this pattern and seldom are part thereof. But I now have plans. I can be sustained by frugal simplicity and plod along common stones, with a hope that a heaving heavens will vanish to level the ground and allow a few days more of soreness to recede.

Be gone this deep groaning tedium. 

Asked and it is weekly.

Brac vis Croatia. Islands. 

Hashers – hash house harrier


Indigo’s kings cullage. 

Orson Scott the third man.

First feelings

I arrived quite tarnished and fairly tired. And will go onwards by the morning or the next day. But for today I am finally in Italiano and am pleased to have arrived safe and sound in Trieste. It is very interesting to see such a place all the piazzas and open space. There is no open spaces in English cities. I don’t count parks. Caffe couture and merlot. Aperatif if Campari. Picante pancetta. Local cheese and I feel truly bamboozled…

Bewana notte.


After a nights sleep when I was woken up without any bed clothes. Stepped out to fix my trip to Piran. Bonjourno. Sorted €5:40c and now I am in an illy caffé house in central Trieste. I have photo of James Joyce walking over a bridge on the grande canal. Well a bronze! First cappuccino. Italians are coffee crazy! Ate some awesome cheese and pancetta. Pancetta del calabrasi and a matured local cheese. Some bread a few glasses of merlot and apertivo. Some tapas style food along the way. Then bed. And talk so much. Chattering mouth and what must they be talking about. The is a lot of well dressed individuals here, but it’s a typical Italian kind I feel. Will walking up to castello next I think. Very windy day today. DuSty. I am less uncertain today than I was yesterday. I will camp in Piran. 5days then Pula…in Croatia. Can’t do lbjana.
Catterdrale di San Giusto
Very primativo
Looks to have numerous building stages so much that most columns are individual.
Now walking down via catterdrale to a museo. Mvseo.
San Canziano.

Refosco is name of the intense red vino  I had last night.
Just been bitten in a Roman
Mausoleum up at the castello. Was it a Roman flea…
Had a proper perfect pizza. 400’c oven pasta dough??? Asked for a job.
Mascalzone Latino…e qui fu Napoli.

The strong wind of the morning had vanished in a few hours. The sun is almost breaking out of the cloud cover.

Decided I must’ve broken my ribs. They really hurt still when I cough.

Nina nam nam
Made my Trieste…

Pier at Trieste

Laying at the end of the pier
The flat grey Adriatic languid and gentle
Seabourn mystery leaving maritima stazione. Tug leading the way.
Where larger vessels once toured their crafts
nipped by ant. No questions asked.
Off Nina went to rendezvous at 3.
I walked along the shoreline. Many boats lay at anchor and I think of the painting created by carvachio??? and turner of Verona and Venice and Naples. But not of Flemish lands. A millimetre of land between sky and sea. Head on shoe for comfort.
Oh my rib is aches and my jaw still restricts my diet.
Boys fishing and girls parsolled but not Austen.
But I feel slowly falling into dreams.
Passed the Augustus gate and out of the city.

Stood at the door PAM. But it will not open. This is the entrance, not the exit. Fool. Italiano is not my mother Tongue.


Diary w/c Tuesday 16th,

Got up at around 745. Maybe 730. Happy. Did ablusions. Cup of old coffee in microwave. Ate an Apple and the remainder of that strange fractal Romanesco broccoli.
Now striding to Starbucks for fresh filter. Full of ‘Storm’ by Godspeed You! Black Emperor! which puts my mind at ease. Tonight is curry club. Pinto beans and black eyed bean
(actually peas), change of plan Glenn can’t make Wednesday.
Nice lady smiled at me and touched my shoulder. Good shoes. Got an hour to kill, not going to be early to mental health as might bump into family from hell from 2 weeks ago.
And what is wrong with just being on time to an appointment. Usually it feels like I need preparation in my head, but do I actually. Just drifting on. Happy!
Heard from Scarlett – just the occasional hello makes me so relieved and blissful.
I am not always that friendly. Tuesday 12:30. Some Indian guy tried to connect, but I think I was preoccupied by what hannah had discussed with me. I have to stop being cold towards people.
Wednesday 17th,

Not much happened today, no money so stayed inside. Hoovered up, etc. Changed the position of a few things in my room. Did some washing. Good quiet day really.
Thursday 18th,

I’ve not had any problems since Tuesday session. No feelings of unworth. Strange I feel calm, the weather helps. Off to sign on. Southern house is an ‘anti job’ centre . No drinking no mobile phones no smoking no jobs. The amount of litter everywhere and the kind of ragged people and the continual noise from the A64. Not nice. Get me away from here. Waiting.
Got to Wetherby and took Mr. Dogg for a couple of hours walk. He almost swam across the river. Chasing the ball for a long time. He seems happy: I am happy.
Why do I always eat unhealthly at my mothers. It’s 21:24 on Thursday and I’m tucking into a mozarella cheese and tomato toastie! Good book though. I can hear snoops’ belly rumbling…
Friday 19th,

A certain person is missing at 9:02am so there is a different dynamic in the SEN quarter. I think that says something? Maggie Brown: not much to say to me – no eye contact. All the other TA’s seem smiley, though. Almost all of them.I have tried all day to engage all staff in conversations and smiling. With some there isn’t any smiles. I have tried to be less confrontational and more approachable in school, however had an issue or two in Science. Unable to get certain boys to behave. Left there head scrambled. My mood is changing as the bus is late. Suddenly all my desires are fading away. The happiness of the last week feels far away…How did guns and roses come round twice? Far out. We must be going through the eighties again! Suddenly hungry for chizandfips and all I have is a current bun.
I have to record a green slip on Monday for __, __ and __. it’s all I can do as they didn’t take any notice of me between lessons.
Worked until 9pm at the o2 and hung around for a couple of minutes. Not too bothered about New Model Army. Master make me new. 00:17 Saturday Candi Staton remix! Urgh. 3 pints of Guinness in Chapel Allerton and missed the bus. Hung around until 1am to get a taxi with __ and __.
Sunday 21st,

Feel like I’ve had a quiet weekend. Was too late to meet my sister to take Snoops for a walk on Saturday – not communicating clearly with her. Bought some provisions from Tesco’s. Made lasagne/bechamel sauce Saturday night and had 2 bottles of beer. Went to bed happy and tired.

Woke up at 8 am watched a bit of iPlayer, realise I am struggling money wise to get home…silly boy. All I needed was £3.20, but I spent that yesterday on provisions. £12.00. Had enough of no money, depressing, hope I hear from the organic shop next week, thinking positive?

Think I got chatted up by a girl on Friday. She made me feel good. I was very relaxed in her company. Relaxed: comes across. Got a date from first time in 1.5 years of hoping. Mojito evenings, but mustn’t get my hopes up too much? Home made tortillas? Sun and fun. Sunday 1800.

Tune: Heaven & earth feel the spirit. Nice.

Off to Mum’s for Monday TA course. Bought a bottle of wine to celebrate Mum’s birthday on Friday. Nice night. Went to bed and read for a while.
Monday 22nd,

Slept well – woke up at 7am snoozed until 745am. Got up made tortellini and mushroom, a brew and ran the bath. Went to college and made an effort to sit with the girls – everyone seemed happy to connect and talk to me. Worked with __ and __ on a power point presentation had a laugh. Got my head polished! Had my observation, which I was panicking about. The usual 2 year sevens a nightmare…but __ was great and I think __ thought I did really well! Happy as Larry. Saw __ in the corridor and made out there must be 2 of him as he moved so fast!
Back home to Roundhay, HM baked beans and HM Pitta breads…Nice. Cool.

Week score out of 10…7.

Liberty Bell

I realise that I am 38 and suddenly I’m prejudiced and not just any prejudice but a whopper – I dislike … actually not people individually or those who are free to think openly and would question indocrination. I like anyone as an ‘individual’ who can think for themselves and need not resolve to a group symbols and group identities. It is the concept that within my locale there are millions of people who keep up this pretense of being in a special privilaged order outside of the vast majority. These grouped individuals never present themselves without saying I’m jewish, a muslim, a hindu, a roman catholic, a Protestant, almost before a word has left their mouth. I feel am just a human, in a community of humans and we all just the same. It makes me angry that people can create these groups. They don’t/won’t marry outside their clique, eat only the correct food, pay homage to a god or a prophet. Slipping between middle class English and another language depending on what it is they’re discussing and maybe it’s my sudden appearance…I think I generally look out of place in these groups of people; something in my heritage and maybe this why I am a loner? Oh Dear. Where does this deep passionate feeling aspire from. This comes from being too loving and accepting of different cultures. I don’t like locked doors and gates. The word prejudice – where does it come from?

1250–1300; ME < OF < L praejūdicium prejudgment, orig. preliminary or previous judicial inquiry, equiv. to prae- pre- + jūdicium legal proceedings, judging (jūdic-, s. of jūdex judge + -ium -ium )

2. preconception, partiality, predilection, predisposition. influence.

Related forms:

prej⋅u⋅diced⋅ly, adverb
prej⋅u⋅dice⋅less, adjectiv


Liberty Bell


Not feeling anything much. Flat looks a bit bad detritusy but not too bad – i think its age shows the dirt more. 
Paul’s linen all over the floor in the out building…he’d forgotten! hehe
Hung about. Off to sign on.
Put alarm clock on for 7. Went back to sleep zzzzz. Woke up by April 
standing over the bed shouting at me; all in my head! Weird.
Can’t focus as well as last night. Still got this odd cold. Feeling a 
bit dry. Why can’t I hydrate?
Crocus time again / spring time is here again.
Got to town time to spare. Coffee. Shit no money! How did happen? Oh 
well! It’s not the end. It’s only coffee…
Signed on; one job? Customer services part time – good news. We’ll 
see. Tons of work down in Cornwall. Cornwall. Cornwall.
Timeline infinity. Where is the universe going? Very good question! We 
know where it came from: bigbang; we don’t know why, but where is it going? 
What is it striving toward in the end?
Last four days were beautiful! Snoops and the countryside. Fantastic. 
Uplifting…sunny and spring, my face has more colour!

dung walk

Out for dung walk at 10am. Just been blanked. Looked at dog, but not 
at me. Is it an invisible person walking the dog?
On top of the ings and just seen mark Bolton. Plastic raver? Had to 
have all the kit for walking! Hunters barbar. Baba! 10.48
Oh well collingham here I come. Knees giving me jipp. Need Ginger?
Hit the church in collingham at 1120. Snoops is tangled!
Working my way back to you, babe with a happiness inside – the Detroit 
Spinners! Kirk Deighton fête on my own 1980. Dave Edmunds. Snoops and 
I am back he’s eaten a whole tin and I’ve eaten a ton of pasta 
1230…decided to tidy the front room. Top to bottom. Shoe’d snoops 
upstairs…grumble grumble. 1510. Preparing for trip back. 1620 bus to 
Leeds. Curry night. Can’t find jsa book!
1550 and I don’t know why but I’m not looking forward to going to 
Leeds. Some times I prefer the quiet of this street, braine road. 
Returned library book bus on time!
Picked this bus hoping it’d be quieter. It’s rammed with school kids. 
Hmm. Bus driver is swerving all over 1631. Almost ended up in hetchel 
Swearing is all these ethnics can do. Leeds what are you doing to 
educate your children. I am from here as soon…
I had two fun years at YE from 1997 until 1999. Loads of drinking done 
in the bracken fox and that motivational juggling stuff. Team 
building, camp David. Near ripon. Bridge building and laser quest. 
Kids do my head in. They’re pointless.
During term time children should be banned from public transport. They 
should be caged on a school bus patrolled by a teacher.
We didn’t win the quiz, but our team was huge; like a hernia…
Happy. Full of beans. Walking. Home. Tired. Sleep. Midnight.

The tear of fear

Please Mum no more cheap toliet paper, the stuff my index finger goes straight through ain’t glamourous.
Back to marigold andrex.
‘Hey look! There goes the durex dog’ said my sister at Wetherby Show in about 1980.
Silver Dog is asleep paw on my shin bone like a hand in my hand…yawn yawn.
Me tired too, but eaten so much shite today. I’m loaded with MSG and transfats; cool huh?

It has bean some time…PS don’t get too angry

There isn’t any reason why this is the first time I’ve written in my blog since the 4th, other than I updated my iPhone to the latest firmware and now I am restricted to bonafide app’s… iBlogger is £4.99. I am struggling money wise, so no time soon will I pay out a fiver on a nothing.

I feel empty, soulless, like a deep pit or an endless cavern. I got up without a sense that today was a none day. Yesterday was a none day, but I helped out at Help the Aged. The day before was a none day and I had an annoying afternoon surrounded by yound families in Starbucks. I love them. But not when I am in a sour mood. They’re like vinegar to my lemon juice…

I can’t blog on the go, but Paul reckons that it isn’t what people care about: poetry. He’s always right so…

I can’t explain how frustrated I am by having no voice and constantly being told: NO. Not everything is black and white we live in a rich universe of colours and lights. Fuck not having options.

I feel like I clean up every where I go- I know i am obsessed about cleanliness – but I can’t cope with it being a mess, and I don’t know where to start usually when there is always a mess; my life is that mess and I can’t have the place I live in a similar vein. I need to live alone, I know.

Shower gel left out, random hairs in the bath, black rotten mould on the shower curtain, tooth paste lid not closed, jacket left on the front room floor, piles of shoes just where they have been taken off. What could possibly get to me in this? I don’t know what to to do to make it any different.

I know I have improved my diet and reduced my alcohol intake to less than recommended, so thanks, but now I feel a little like I’m going too far – Sprouting  kits, smoothies, soya milk, fresh juice, spirilina. Yet yesterday I ate so much food! I had twice as much as usual. Today I shat for ages. Twice for ages. Clearly it’s going straight out the other end.

I do like this new approach, but I don’t need the booze and the constant hum of noise I can hear in my room. I listen to Paul Mckenna and I let go, but also I over analyze what is being said. I know he used certain words – like ‘Now’ and ‘Here’ to concentrate the mind. I was actually yawning before I put the cd on…maybe I am subconsciously associating Paul McKenna with sleeping. But once I stopped listening I couldn’t stop listening
to Paul’s activities.

He was on the PC for ages. So I assume either work or stuff, but because I was aware of the light in the corridor, which is actually the light from the stair wells of the flat, I thought Paul was still up at …3am?
I don’t think it was 3am, but shit my sleep patterns are crap!

I’m off my head!

Just decided to get a refill before it gets really busy here and went down stairs, but shit! 11.40 and queuing out the door. Why do I come to such a soulless and full of emptiness place other than for free internet? Off to visit my Mum and our dog today. perhaps I should get the next bus?

I haven’t been for a long walk with Snoops for a while. Since before New Year. I love taking him for challenging jaunts, and I think he loves get lost, etc, get him home and have him sink into an exhausted sleep of the knackered. I need to get out and get knackered! I actually love walking, but as I don’t drive this is a bit  impossible. How can I get to Grassington on Saturday?

Tom has moved out of Wetherby, to South Milford or some other place near to Sherburn-in-Elmet, so I probably will see him less and less. Tom is my mum’s ex. She was with him for more than 10 years, but finally through Tom’s ‘laziness’ and Mum’s conceitedness they eventually became to hate each other. My mum some how expects a man to pay or look after her? To keep her in luxury, or something. I can’t logically understand why some women expect this. Its like Prostitution. I have a relationship with this man and for me doing so he will pay me x amount and shower me in x things. My mum never told him he’d have to contribute to living @ 42 Braine Road so he never did, but after a while she expected him to contribute – why should he suddenly do this?

Tom and I used to do cultural theatre visits, occasional pub visits and long difficult walks. One so difficult that my legs wouldn’t accept it. Cross fell in February. Miles of wet wet bogginess and boots suddenly so heavy that 2/3rds up I could go no more. There were some amazing walks that I did complete, however, like Helvelyn twice and loads of less demanding walks in the North Yorkshire Moors; usually ten or twelve miles, but not so challenging as those in the Lake District. Eating a pork pie after the walk in Goathland.

Frozen falls hoping from stone to stone over a stream. not on the path but making our own way along this stream. The name of the walk was…
Striding edge up to Helvelyn I actually was cantering, jogging almost running to get to the top. Tom couldn’t stop me! When I moved to Coniston with the YHA in 2007 I spent quite a few days walking over many hills. The Old Man, Red  …, Wetherlam, Chapel Stile: I got myself into a mad mad situation behind chapel stiles. I was following the OS map and thought i’d try to follow one of the dotted green lines going behind the church – some Gill – which was fun until I realised, after falling from a rock and cracking my elbow (which still hurts 3 years later), there wasn’t any route up and the Gill was almost vertical! But it was vertical both up and down!

So at this point I realised that if I was to get off the Gill I would probably break some bones; a lot of bones, as I couldn’t see any way down. I decided to use my ass on a scree and slide down to the drop into the stream that I could see below, or I could call mountain rescue to get me off there! I couldn’t face that so broken bones was the best choice in my mind. I pushed myself off and i plummetted down and down and down…here it comes, first broken bone. Just at the drop I slid to a gentle stop. Pebbles in my shorts and grazed arse, but no broken bones. I learnt not to use those offpiste routes ever again and followed someone else at least and then the two of you can help each other out if it gets difficult.

Went to the quiz last night, yawn, and I said to the landlord, just as he bent over, can I slip in there…meaning the disabled toliet(an oxymoron if ever I heard one)… and got an oh ‘er missus and a belly laugh! I yawn at the quiz and not at Alexis, April, Jenny, Paul and Yasmin; they’re great. I laughed so much at Alexis. She’s great; last night she looked lovely! I don’t like quizzes. They’re the last bastion of the dying pub. they’re in full retreat from Moscow when they pull together a quiz. We went to the Deer Park on Monday and they had a quiz then and we went to the same place Wednesday and they had a quiz then. This is a very worrying development. 2 pub quizzes in a week. Is there a pub that has 7 a week or 2 a day 7 days a week? I don’t think 14 pub quizzes would be too much, do you?

Off to the theatre to see ‘The Wormcollector’ on Friday night – I have an odd feeling about this as it is only on at the West Yorkshire Playhouse for two days. But thank you Paul – nice birthday present! Very outside the box! Soon Tom and I will go to see the Canterbury Tales and I don’t have an odd feeling about that …

Canterbury Tales

Northern Broadsides

Studied Canterbury Tales at A level (Nunn’s Priest’s) and comprehensively at Uni and saw the late great Brian Glover perform it at York Theatre in the mid 1990’s. Miller’s Tale and Reeve’s Tale…can’t remember anyothers!

Going to stop now.

Rant over. Got to get used to other people’s approach to life!

From now on…

It took me ages to be resurrected this morning  A night boozing and shouting into a jam jar. Trying to catch anguish in a jam jar. Cider inside my head and battenbergin my mouth. 2 meat chilli, an alt bier in North Bar, then a gallon of weston’s vintage cider. How rotten I feel and I just passed a refuse strewn garden. Actually the garden of Christ, the redeamer, not exactly gethseminy. Where a purse of coins won’t be silver, but rusty bent coppers. And now the junction of sheepscar. This strikes me as being some place of common animal butchery. A61 you guided me towards my dreams. I butchered and killed all that I once loved. I confided a hopeless truth to someone I hold too dear. And after jumping off the number 2 I realise that so much we once took for granted is now closed forever closed. Borders, envy, Wesley owen…does this mean christanity is dead or bankrupt, in administration, corrupted? Then I come to deal with the weekly dole. Having to relocate from one happy place to another. Happiness as a robot order arises and strides from jobless to jobless mass. Off in the corner a man wears gilded ears and watches a DVD while deaf, or quiet, couple look deep into each others eyes. He can’t keep his hands off her thigh. Outside not inside. And all I wait for is to abuse my keys; last night I spilt beer and broke my keys. Oh last night started calm and simple. A quick bonjour to dan and checo. A quick exchange of words with jim and mark. Then time to write a card and wrap a bondage kit. A shrunken bondage kit. Just add water. Apparently it grows 600%. 600 times its size I think not, even if the counter girl did present it thus. And now I’d like to send a slice of cake to the girl who hasn’t got drunk in years. Oh they aren’t deaf as louder he is. I just need to plug myself in. Please fuck off and fuck her senseless. This is useless, futile and I can’t wait forever just to pretend to look in earnest for a job to forfil my financial needs.

So finally at 1441 I get on Starbucks wifi. It was being a real shit and wouldn’t share the Starbucks loyalty redirection with me…futile. I was getting ratty. I didn’t need to come down here as we have wifi in the flat at last, but i am not one to spend all day louffing all day in a sofa…I might be out of work, but I think I am still more motivated than I was before I worked for the YHA.

 I went to see a lady on Monday night, 2pm, to start therapy in CBT. I felt crap after that as I couldn’t fit her in in my busy schedule and don’t need to keep travellin to Wetherby when all i have is the dole. At least Paul and I now have all the essentials in the flat. Green Lentils, Mung Beans, Broad Beans, Chick Beans, Black Eyed Beans, Black Beans, etc.. This diet thingy is brilliant, but I keep having slight weaknesses. Today it was a sunrise muffin(tm). Yesterday it was eating late at night – brilliant chilli and brilliant Paul made battenberg.

Quite surprised by how wonderful my birthday was. Woke up dull and dreary and concerned for the future – in walks cake laden Paul. He spent all day Saturday making it for me…Paul making cake! Can’t imagine the craziness of the scene? But its actually a very competent first go…Paul Scott’s Battyberg Cake Co…

Internet gone again so back to Notepad…trusty Notepad/Wordpad.

After the cake episode we went to Tescos’ – some how this was the calmest shop I’ve ever done there. And it was the one in Seacroft too. Miles of prefabricated housing and vertical council towers and the precinct where Tesco’s is was once a really horrible reflection of Seacroft too. I wonder if the value of property in Seacroft is more now that it has such a good Tesco’s? Can’t believe how domesticated I can be at times and why I ponder the value of properties?  Spent all my money on food and not the usual dozen pints in North Bar.

North Bar felt very desolate last night. Quiz night, but only a half dozen souls in the bar. I wonder if the recession is being felt in Britain’s most expensive bar? It’s not the most expensive, but it feels it.

(Poorly blonded haired teenager with a bright orange face and a pierced tongue stares at me, but blankly and fingers false eyelashes and twists bangles that adorn her; flase pink nails, pink dildo? Where is the real her, in that pink dildo – a battery/a motor and some synthetic materials. Primark brown bag of the dead?)

Done some brown grain rice and an exotic mix of beans for a meal tonight – at Glenn’s convenience? I’m usually inspired by a variety of ingredients, but not so sure that I care that much about beans? They are very healthy, but uninspiring. So I think chilli again. Chilli Beans/Chilli Beef/Chilli Chips/Chilli Dog Shit…

A person. Is a person on the inside exactly represented by how they are on the outside. The girl? Is she false or is that just a facade? Is she afraid to be ignored, but some how her black/brown roots show clearly. Does a man who eats mostly chilli desire to become chilli. I went to Millies for Marigold’s Swiss Boullion – reduced salt. Perhaps I could do a provencal style bean dish? That doesn’t entail chilli. What was Indian food like before colombus discovery(rediscovered) the New World? No Peanuts, Chillis or Tomatos or Potatoes.

I’m trying to do Joni Mitchell a bit more justice than her Magnum opus – ‘Blue’, so downloaded Hissing of Summer Lawns. Inspired. I actually think this is more Brand New Heavies than Folk. Actually there is something more about her…its like a dreamscape. I especially like the Jungle Line. Good unusual beat funk and soul and rhythms and strange synth noises which work with her voice. I really get this beat.

How can I get a apple Macbook Pro without money/job or being a student? No way. Please will a fairy godmother bring me one? Heehee.


A day to go and I feel frustrated. That bit of therapy makes it worse. Like some unhealing wounds. Round in circles do I go. Oh, I long for the wallenstein and a pond full of carp. And seasons for a chin up. For the strange and piqué taste to vanish in shimmering waves of happiness. I must resolve my hate; I realise it’s not good to feel blames fame. Girl give me bread and sweet words.


A good reception. For those it invites. And for those along willy nilly well who can say? I switched between rooms. Walking the fine line. Between all kinds of life. I turn to watch and look to tell. Some how I keep walking the line. Shame shame shame. I can connect the dots but without owning.


Some odd feeling of being swamped and concrete comes over me in the welcome break. It really make me hate. But KFC to waken my appetite and coffee to fill my veins. There is a vapid tastelessness in my cup. Leaving me caffeine charged, last one until morning. Banal hell of muffins, flapjack and coke in cans. At last, very chilled by northern wind, set off for Watford Gap. Oh pathetic happiness on the M1, south.

people around me.

Business meetings always happen next to me and people always stare at me. This is a public place, but it’s not a meeting room. I wouldn’t work for a company that didn’t have a meeting room.
And now some old guy is rearranging the furniture for his wife who has gone down with her Geordie accent to buy teas.
I have so many hates but they just go inside and, like water inside a pressure cooker, they build up just to seep away when I rationalise my temper. I could say something, but I will not. I may one day and never stop. But if I do open my mouth I am scared that it’ll be blah blah blah.
Nice girl smiled a winning smile and flashed her teeth and stretched and pointed her chest at me. Nearly had my eyes out and out of the corner of my eyes I thought she was drinking actimel and the old guy who rearranged furniture is staring staring staring.
Ever heard of a Elvis Presley film called Clam bake Tm? It must be a bad one, probably the worst, its not in my scrapbook that I got bought in 1979 or 1980 by my old and insane step sister: Julia. Or maybe it is and I just have conveniently forgotten? Kid Galahad, Kissing Cousins, OHDEAR. I watched a biopic on Elvis’ life just in the New Year…actually on the 1st I think?…and I cried at the way his life turned out. He wasn’t a happy camper was he?


He was always glued to the Telly in the corner like it was an oracle of all knowledge. Now she faces the same direction to pray and pay homage to the false idol. Always taking life away and never giving it back. Delphi was less suspect influenced by those fumes. TV paralysed my parents one by one. Now I can’t cope to be in the same room with mother because incendiaries fall out of my gob all the time. Before FB divided, the TV, the Radio and the Newspaper all brought us to our knees for a daily fix of systematic control; my mother’s generation still believe everything they read, or are told, by the mysterious voices carried on the airwaves and on the tabloid.

Monday, 29th April 2019.

Out of the mist comes the X98,

Carrying onwards only spirits!

Not completely dead,

But not getting any better.

A ghost ship, taking South –

South West, silently taking

Sailing down Deighton Road

Interrupting clouds, restful.

It’s 6:32am.

Stand A appears to my left

High visibility man sweeps up

Sunday’s forgotten tears.

Potential for excellence

Cry Cry Cry
he does to awaken
our snoozing thinking
sinking none drinking
refusing to slip-away
refrain from Wednesday
Try Try Try
to roll a last time
drifting contented; please!
the tug of covers
and the claws of pain
keep distant Thursday
My My My
body dangles over
and tangle rebounds unease
shrinking head bone
and shrivelled lip
grimly set tonight
By By By
chance to dream
squirming confused
building up revulsions
blood pounds torrid
locked from tomorrow.

Tears before Thursday: Baby Bawling, Snow Thawing, Dog Snoring

I arrived back from Leeds for one pm, had some noodles, bean sprouts, veg and things, played with Finley for a little while. He’s a little sickly lately. Emma thinks that this might be because he is no longer breast feeding. Poor Bear. The baby is wailing constantly – not like him as he’s usually very happy. I think he wants a ‘cudge’; he thrusts his arms forward looking hopefully and I happily undertake the task. He smiles at me whenever I come in the room so I think we’re pals; but he doesn’t know it yet.

He drifts through this wailing and bawling, with occasional half smiles, not knowing what to do. I decide to see what his reaction to music would be? I’d heard certain classical music has an impact mood, behaviour and development, but I’m not sure Beethoven is the right chord? Anyway he responds instantly and wants to touch the music centre. No No! I wonder if he needs something a little more relaxing and enjoyable; music was always my remedy as a baby.

In the antique chest I shuffle through the records and come up a classic of 1971: Teaser and the Firecat by ‘Cat’ Stevens. If I Laugh, Tuesday’s Dead, Morning Has Broken, Moonshadow and I am in a full flood of tears. Finley is content in my arms and quite unaware of the salty water falling on his tender head. Hardly any music got as good as this album?

Took my merry friend for a long walk, in virgin snow, at four thirty. I had heard that it was going to rain so I wanted to take him walking while it was still a few inches deep. Usual route however along Harland Way, Route 66, west off Deighton Road, passed two bridges took the left turn up to the next two bridges, Hilltop Farm and Spofforth Hill. By the time we hit clean snow on The Ings the rain had turned to icy rain blowing from the east. Snoops behaves like a puppy on the fresh snow he runs, gallops, bites or licks the snow in each bound.

Came back to home to find sister has returned and her Boyfriend is due shortly. Suddenly fell a little in the wrong place at the wrong time(they’re having there central heating sorted at the new house so are also staying the night). Off back to Leeds: I didn’t want to tonight as I have Thursday to fear and I want to put it as far away as possible until the day itself. Waited 15 mins for the X99 and then a African guy walks past tells me he’s waited since 19:30 and seen no bus go towards Deighton Bar. I decided to trudge in the brown slush to the Bus Station in Wetherby to see if there is any indication of whether there might be a bus there. My mood is declining. I get there and there is no lighting on in the the dank, plain, basic shelter that is called the station: the travel display suggests a bus going to Deighton Bar with arrive in 30 mins. I decide it’s not worth it as this might all be a First Bus lie; I’ve had ‘interesting’ experiences with First Group in Truro before. Back to 42 for the evening and I’ll set off at ten am Thursday for my date with fate.

The Ghost pt.24 (we call it acieed)

We call it acieed

There was once a night club in Harrogate, North Yorkshire where we 17 and 18 year old kids spent most of our Friday and Saturday nights. It was so special to us all and it was known simply as the Elevens Club; we belonged to the place. The proprietor was Dio (or was it Dion my memory fails?) and he vetted everyone coming into the club individually. He had his own method looking at us for fashion faux pas, age concerns, too many men and what I felt was his unique sensing of who was the  right person to come into his club.

It is there where we went to hear Tim Garbutt(one half of the very successful Utah Saints) deejaying for a tiny £30 a night. He’d play a wildly conflicting mixture of street music of the era: House, Techno, Garage, Rap, Hip Hop, Soul, Hip House and any other extension of Electronica; all of it successful.  Many of what became know simply as dance anthems: Rhythim Is Rhythim, Adamski, Hardcore Uproar, Todd Terry, anything on Bigshot, Landlord, French Kiss, DJ Mark the 45 king, 2 in a Room. We young people were born for the second time.

A new way of life stretched before us from 1989. We followed Tim like wagging dogs, he blew our minds, we blew our own minds and we’d support him at all times. Report to the dance floor.

After Tim left Elevens Club he and Des, the hairdresser, started Hoof nights, this introduced us to Tim rebranded as DJ Tim ‘Sense Invader’ Garbutt. Hoof travelled around Harrogate from Legends to Carringtons and finally broke apart just as the Casbah(their own club) opened to continue the good vibes!

The few of us religiously travelling from Wetherby were joined by a handful of Jewish lads from Alwoodley(Jackie Katz, etc), in their snazzy spats  Zoot suit, shirt and tie, but all others were the regular ingress of Harrogate school lads: Steve W, Chris B, Justin D, Neil D, Steve Z, Dagger: an assortment of St. John’s, St. Aiden’s, Rossett and other secondary schools dotted around HG1. So many names have been forgotten! From their auto-mobiles I recall Andy S with an electric blue Renault 5 GT Raider, Mark F in a Citreon AX and Marcus F worked in the department store in Harrogate now known as Hooper’s (Hewlett’s?).

Hanging out on a Sunday afternoon, post Saturday blues coming through, playing football at the Cenotaph or chillin’ out over at Valley Gardens with Caroline W and Fiona D.
With J and S fighting to be in the front controlling the tape of the night before; on rewind for Take Me Away. I was happy to leave J and S squabbling and joined Jazz-hard-strongbeard in a mini ROO or ALF the Triumph-ant Acclaim. All these cars: RT in the battleship grey Fiesta 950, Simon’s brown Honda civic, and Johnny Gaddins legendary FSO ‘super-styled’ Red Riot – ‘it’s not a Lada’: A body panelled brick built for speed propelled off Boulby Cliffs.

I’d buy every Armand Basi I could afford and chucked acid down my neck with joie de vivre for a really really good time. Acid only, with a little poppers, (but J was the anti-Christ).

With Nude Photo or Acid Rock banging out, disco smoke and LSD working its magic I always lost all sense of what part of time and space I was inhabiting while Jiggy Eyebrows was next to me on the dance floor. There were so many people on acid! every one of the 200 people on any particular Saturday night (or so it seemed). Not a drop of alcohol in sight: and Dan always drove as was clean as whistle. Or we’d have somewhere to crash in Harrogate, or J, S and I walked the long route past the gypsies opposite Plumpton Rocks: 3:15am. Or picked up at dawn by Dean Jackson and Rastafarian Mark at 5am just outside Spofforth or Mikey in his shoveit(chevette) at the services on Woodlands: Bowyer’s Pork Pies! Nobody drank! Everyone did the acid and were driven where ever next: Brimham Rocks, Knaresborough, Thurston Reservoir. J would drive anywhere for ever a couple of quid: to put in the tank. We’d wait for the sun to come up. Or stand on a street corner being tormented and reduced to a blubbering mess by S Beyotts . Chris B once called us all we were plastic ravers. Like he was special and we were on his turf…

From February 1989 and West One, where we smoked cigars and danced to S-express, Tyree(awesome superdoupertrooper) chinos, tweed blazers and brogues in Legends. Thorough fair British Knights, Troop and Travel Fox; always Stussy and Nike Jordan’s. To the last days of The Mix circa May 1991 and Chipie brand. MC Spider, Sasha, Digweed, others and always Tim ‘Utah Saints’ Garbutt.

Whether on happy purple oms, strawberries, farty green or purple dragons, super-smilies, test-tubes, the legendary home made and ridiculously strong ‘Wall’, microdots, windowpanes?, but be very careful with white lightening. If I told you that acid was sold in sticks of Wrigley’s Spearmint what would you say juicy fruit?

Oh yeah, baby there isn’t a more satisfying feeling than the first warm glow of acid coming on before it take full control of all your aural, oral and visual stimuli and reduces a once viral young man to a gibbering maniac for 6 hours, 6 days, 6 years or forever?

Afternoon rambling

This afternoon I have been busy perambulating from place to place to find a few surprises and a few disappointments.

Joel invited me Behind the Town Hall and he mentioned there might be some lunch – this turned out to be pancakes this being Shrove Tuesday. Sweet offerings with jam and cream. My taste buds struggled a little with the Lidl raspberry jam which was a little tart. It needed something to wash it down and there is a wonderful differentiated selection to chew upon at Martin and Joel’s gaff(not while comfortably sat on the wagon . I needed the food so ‘thank you guys’. If only I was at home for a night with mother for the usual savoury mince Shrove pancakes !

I left them discussing the table arrangements for this Thursday’s ‘Spice’ meeting, but I won’t be in until Saturday at the earliest as my body feels in need of a detox. Maybe they’ll listen to my suggestion to keep it tasty but simple.

They’re digging up Dortmund Square in Leeds to build something else I shouldn’t wonder. Then  passing over The Headrow, through Thorton’s Arcade, The Victoria Quarter I turned out opposite the Halifax bank on King Edward Street and approached Kirgate market from the central entry on Vicar Lane. Joel had mentioned to me there was a South African stall on the Butcher Row. Saw this and thought briefly about buying Biltong.

Kirkgate market has developed quite a multi-ethnic taste. There are three or four Polish/Russian delis, a couple that cater for African and the Caribbean and even the odd Chinese/Oriental/Indian shop-let. I bought some bean sprouts, noodles, mushrooms and bunch spring onion to conjurer up something leaning towards China.

There are so many empty retail units in the market and lots of shops are vacant around Leeds. I drifted to the Calls – falling buildings – via the disused area behind the Corn Exchange. It strikes me that once a lot of the majority of the core ‘Brands’ congregate on Trinity some of the other areas of Leeds will fall into further decline. I don’t think Leeds can support the retail infrastructure it currently supposes. Reduce the over heads and perhaps Leeds will start being more like Manchester.

A chance discover of Raw Chocolate Pie – haven’t had one of these bars since Falmouth a few years ago now. Does justice to the raw ideals. Nothing bad here! It is tarred, smooth, bright, intense and coats the palate in a tobacco woodiness. Indeed apart from some one who vanished from Borough market long ago – currently Chocolicious does some great stuff there, but I regard it as inferior.

It appears that the Dock Street Market has vanished – closed by the landlord on 28th January. To be fair I hadn’t been in really, but today I was trying to find another place to think that wasn’t the big 4. Hell! I am back in Starbucks and high on Hibiscus tisane.

Good news is I have another interview on Monday. This one is for YO!Sushi in the new Trinity Development; I keep the wheels a’turning. Any opportunity there would be amazing so I will keep my fingers crossed. Next week should be busy with interviews, etc. and maybe back in work shortly?

Elena’s birthday and the Tate Odyssey

In 2009, prior to my Elena’s birthday, we undertook to Tate Britain in Pimlico to see some of the brilliance shining within there.
Luck would have it that the 2009 Turner Prize was also being expo’d too so, for the addition if a few liquid quids, we could look over and ponder the winner?

The time grows wider but the memory remains vivid.

The prize winner was predicted by Elena but, although I felt that only his work meant something to me, I really wouldn’t like to predict the winner of this award: the choice of champion is drearily done. I couldn’t connect anything, nothing with nothing in this scene. In such an vain enterprise I always feel tossed with wilted cos lettuce and fouled Caesar dressing, belonging to nothing conducive but a dreadfully proposed modern jazz cacophony. With pencils and lined paper we wrote our artistically thought contribution and exited to jazz ourselves up for London, in funked up costume, for fun down in Camden Town that night.

Bring on the Batman’s Jokers (Jude and Elena) and the brutally stupid me!
So Richard Wright won? No surprise really…

In the beginning was the word and the word was Coffee

The Coffee Shop Wars?

It is my feeling on this Tuesday morning, 9:56am, that no coffee shop chain in the UK can actually do justice to a coffee done well. I have returned to my usual workspace this morning and gone for a surprisingly well created option from Starbucks’ Tazo blend of tisane: Hibiscus blend.

As I prepare for the coming Thursday, and locking horns with the various mental challenges I will no doubt need to deal with, coffee is a no-no. Why do I think coffee shops fail? I feel the systems in mass produced coffee takes away the creative genius required to get to the personal touch in the roasting process. The bitter stuff we consume across the length and breadth of the UK, in the majority of establishments run by huge faceless corporations, has ceased to be a artisan craft. I see no difference between Costa, Nero, Pret A Manger or Starbucks and McDonald’s, Burger King or KFC and the method of driving prices down and getting the customers in used. So what happened to the world in its haste to homogenize every singular experience for the individual into repetitive, across the board, clones?

Colour coded and branded, like the sacks some of the take home beans are presented in to add authenticity, we long sojourners struggle to find ourselves in a space like this. The passage of those on-route to work, college or school, who don’t need to linger is short, and for them there is no need for any consideration of the aesthetic qualities of the furniture and décor.

Also coffee as a true and simple upper has been hijacked by the profusion of decaf, cow milk, soy milk and gomme style syrups that replace the exquisitely burnt edges in the varying types roasts with a variety of differing sugars; lactose or sucrose, or the absense of any reason to have a cup of coffee in the first place: decaf. Like alcohol free beer, wine, etc. there ain’t no point paying for the opposite of what is advertised on the tin!

We all have differing experiences of the coffee prepared for our prole participation. I feel love for only one minute coffee ‘chain’ if it can be called thus? The other 4 or 5, if you include Ritazza; which is the least impressive ensemble, have nothing in common really. Take time out to visit Monmouth Coffee Co. near Borough Market, Southwark on a Monday thru’ Thursday morning – before the vultures descend on Friday and Saturday for the kaleidoscope of food, drink and trudging feet(warm or cold, wet or dry) – where there are permeating waves of freshly roasted, ground and brewed coffee placed within that ramshackle corner coffee house.

From here the comings and goings still occur, London’s bicycled brigade and those seeking the demands of the City o’er London Bridge; north, pass this spot en-route to whatever concludes their morning sprints. But from 9am until 11am this is somewhere the ponderer can disappear; whether it is to trouble the patrons to move along the French farmhouse oak table or to squeeze up the mezzanine to look out onto Park Street, SE1 it is simple to find a zone of simplicity within the breathing heart of Southwark. Arrayed for purloining pleasure are French,Italian, Swiss, American and British breakfast suggestions all done without guile, condescension or pretence.

We merry few felt in those far too inconsequential months of occupation, while belonging to Rotherhithe, Bermondsey and SE1, there was an a kindred parallelity of us on the perimeter of existence, beyond the troubling Brogue shoe, colluding Chelsea boot and stabbing Stiletto feet, enjoying sumptuous English jams, French bread and dodging pointed pigeon beaks; until, we too, had to exeunt up Stoney Street to collect the 381 for our day which began at noon.

Persons living beyond the call of Starbucks, Pret A Manger, Nero and Costa are truly glorious; those who can find simple something’s with which to dance into the rush of the day belong to the worlds turning.

Opatija (edited)

28th September 2010,

I have this over riding feeling that Croatian’s are very sad. Their national music is really very sombre  Every one of them is a torture to the heart.

And I’ve heard way too much of U2 while on tour.

Positive news is I can get to Trieste from Opatija for less than it would’ve cost me to get there from Rijeka. Ticket bought. Some days to relax out my Croatian odyssey on this Riviera while the last of my Kuna flits away.

The sun is coming out. Although it is rural the campsite is simply as nature intended. If you can cope with many flying things you’re aright and I feel more relaxed here than in the big cities. The big but is that some times the loneliness takes over.

I think pronounced Itch-i-chi?

I went out for a relaxed scout about after a shower, to recompose me from the overnight journey. I got some nice local rye bread, sir/cream cheese and sat down on the sea front waiting for the sun to hopefully/finally force the mesmerizing clouds away: No such luck. Flirted in an expensive café on the front, but in the end it feels pointless as the grey colours win. It’s been raining since 1230pm. I got back to the tent just prior to what I thought must be the main event and went to sleep; knackered after the long journey up the coast on the ferry, and with increasing frequency rainfall drops fall heavily on the delicate tent. As I awake it has slowed to a steady drumming beat; my iPhone says 3pm, maybe it is ceasing? So I need to venture to the local shops for more cheese and more proteins: additional meat.

All along the waterfront a torrent is gushing from outlets that bring the streams off the Kvarner. Heavy rain on top of the range of hills/mountains that sprout straight up behind the thin settlement and ominous clouds west of here, towards a peninsula, make me ponder my decision to leave the tent of dryness, but I can hear the birds calling each other so maybe it is passed and I will carry on.

Ha, I’ve waited for two hours for a bus that is none existent; to be told by a driver going the other way that the next one for me was in another 2 hours! 4 flaming hours waiting for a bus. Fuck that. Why don’t I just walk back?

Now I can hear thunder…
Back on the waterfront I have decided to walk and galeb call around me like screaming babies tossed by the sea into the oppressive air. From here it is very difficult to differentiate the horizon from the sea. The colour is only a couple of swatches different. I am walking into the thin band; home.

Got back via the Komzum, picking up some bread, salami and cheese, and now the heavens have truly opened. I am wet to the skin. I am hoping my tent it still in situ and will protect me through the night without getting washed away into the Adriatic; the lightning is getting closer now.

Once it got dark I was terrified that it was going to hit me. The lightning was striking from behind my eyes. I felt somehow warmed by it’s closeness. I could taste the earthly tension on my primal tears. I had no defence against it if it struck. I accepted the reality that this was it – to end my days frazzled in a burnt out tent in a remote part of Istria. It was my willingness to accept it as the final summation of my existence that moved it on. I felt the planet was to finally rend me and take me, a brief cadence of burning flesh, then the rain would pelt out my remnant flame. I was terrified and then at peace. Perhaps my spiritual acceptance of its providence was enough cause for it to move on to less appeasing individuals along the coast. Phew!

It has moved so now I can sleep peacefully. I hope the rain will lessen and I’ll have some reasonable days before heave-hoe back to Trieste and England

I woke twice in the night convinced that I had a leech like creature on my face. I stared in to the night blackness in the tent and could make out a smudge on the lining. I put a light on and that mark became the screw top on the bottle wine.

By the morning I had a 4 dozen flies and an assortment of other flying insects between the inner and outer lining. And one solitary snail dragging itself towards the toppermost of the poppermost. A large Escargot snail.

I had loads of fears in that tent last night, irrational and uncomprehending. Now I can collect myself and gallop towards the eastern part of Opatija.

I know I don’t speak any Croatian, but some of the locals have the expression of the grave. Especially those in service industries. On buses, ships, in bars, restaurants even in tourist info. I don’t like Croats with that oppression/expression: it makes the clouded and rainy days seem doubly insidious.

As I come back up north from the Dalmatian islands, and get further into a solitary zone, I am beginning to miss Nina in Trieste and Rene, Lena and Michelle in Piran more than I care to admit.