The Ghost(complete) – draft


by Daniel J. Sherburn
Written in May 2011.

Part 1.

Growing
Monkey puzzle trees
right, left and left again
A solitary weeping willow
Arranged like one hand caressing the Eastgate/Quarryhill round-a-bout;
Disused where once there were springs, fountains and a petrol pump.
Travelling back towards Wetherby
My mind has become unravelled
Mind and I must venture there soon.
A bus route forsaken dump
Rambling bland ‘To Let’ bulldozed wastelands,
Low rise warehousing with its padlocked shutters
A Nissan flagship and another dozen flurried showrooms
Stand shoulder to shoulder
Out of place in a cheap rent part of Leeds.

Where the very nature itself springs from the roofs of too often forgotten Victoriana: Tailors’, Machinists’ and Pressers’ Trade Union on Cross Stamford Street.


Coming
loudly behind me on the bus
The sound of second hand “r ‘n’ b”, the damned
Dumb and chav-youth music of distinction,
Surprise
This coming from that most mysterious of rogue forty-something Shane Bell.
So my mind will have to put up with this sound for the next 50 minutes
A bass sound too loud for me on this troubling journey
Tranquil inner peace broken with that vocoder voice.

Some so badly designed headphones leaking vibrations from hell
This is too much sound for a personal stereo.


What is an ellipsis? Saying more than silence might pretend
Inspires in me a feeling of melancholy
(…
An ellipsis is a cold trail
And so many other things,
but to be eclipsed by Tony Tomlin,
who I glimpsed to be crazy,
is enough really for me to be or not to be
Or should we all shout,
Clearly,
‘do you not see?
…)

Earlier today (03/05/2011) I returned to cash in my unused Bonoboticket for a very generous £12 – thank you Crash Records!
I have most of their albums in Soulseek sought MP3 and a few tracks on a those Ninja Tunes “ZEN CD” compilations, both of which I hardly listen to any more. I really didn’t have the desire, nor drive, to see this band in my current mood. justifying this to myself because I only like about 1, 2, or 3, tracks really. The massive dislike I hold for the ‘baggage of a sycophant’ that seems to go with any live music event I attend kills it too. However much I am loving music in all its guises I just can’t go with all the hype that follows doggedly. 


(Oh, our dog is at home so there is guaranteed to be much more enjoyment in him than in a cramped, sweaty, dark and noisy concert that’ll leave my ears screaming in a torture of high frequency ring; he’ll put me in a better place mentally too).


(How much party funds do the political parties waste on planting flags on Roundhay Road, Wetherby Road and the A58 to beg and crave our votes? Oh come on Conservative, Labour and Liberal!)

Further along the route, with the buzz ringing oppressively from behind, I see the fading yellow of the oil seed Rape fields and realise the year and season is moving speedily toward summer and I am without a job again. I want to see a different sight and hear a different sound, but also feel more contentment if I am to get through another day.


Earlier today I spoke Dan L my retired friend from Sunderland, who wears his grumpiness like the Trilby he also continually sports, and he was complaining that he has had his fair share of suffering at the hands of the savage, cold, empty state; forever. He speaks of the light-blue bowler hatted brigade who judged him short-sighted as a child. Who forced him to take some miscellaneous eye drops that he is convinced brought on this physical change in his eyesight. He recalls a large breasted bespectacled Mackem lady told him he would have to wear national health glasses for the rest of his natural life, like an institutionalism. She said that it’s not bad being blind now the frames are so much more fashionable. I find it ironic that all his hatred for the welfare state and its Orwellian darkness that he was a teacher for many years, worked at the courts as a clerk of court and now he distributes mail at Park Place Job-centre all for the system. Dan rails against what has always entrapped him and there isn’t anything left for him except the hope his daughter Laura is a success in the acting world and that there is always the often, too often, pint of Kölsch he consumes at the end of the day. I feel for the poor guy; as at the end of the rope Dan swings and I’m there nursing my Dark Star IPA next to him.


(I was once Stood in an olive grove on Vis looking over the harbour towards the monastery. Over my head hung heavy fruits ready to be picked from the branch: to be pressed into oil or brined for preservation, and I wanted to belong in that sanctuary over the bay, but I have no faith. I want a solemn life, but I have no faith.)

May 4this another day of crawling into bed by 12noon. The last two days walks with the dog have come to this and it feels a bit like a siesta I am having in the unseasonally warm spring. I think I’m exhausted by some basic trial. On our usual 2 hour energetic morning stroll I decided to go into the field beyond St. George’s Field but we walked into a ton of trouble as in the field there were bullocks who very quickly took a dislike to Snoops as we skirted the bottom end of the oblong to come back up towards St. George’s Field from that rectangle. Maybe we got just too close yet some primary instinct took over in those cows (who can never have seen a dog before) and so we had to scarper into the next field lightning fast. We lost our ball. Snoops was trying to go back the way he went, but he couldn’t overcome the innate, but obvious, fear . I felt primal but not scared, my adrenalin flowing, with all these raging bullocks swarming around me: I shouted and made signals with my arms to shoo them. Strangely they didn’t see me as a instinctual threat at all but keep trying to get at the dog. We eat you!

May 5th

Back to Leeds already down to £80 from provisional £130 and how am I meant to pay for electricity, water and food from that frugal amount?

Retail is a false economy. Retail has really been benefiting from higher purchase, bank loans and credit. Now the credit is gone and all the minor industries that feed the larger ones are slowly vanishing. The food chain of business. At the top sits faceless commercial tyranny.

In fact it’s all a lie. The need for materialism is a trap we’re forced into to keep us sedated.

We need a roof over our heads, a comfy bed, food, drink, entertainments, clothes, a cuddle…what else?

It’s going to rain hard tonight so I will make jerk chicken, but I need to have fun tonight and this isn’t going to happen with £50 left after I went to Morrison’s!

It’s occurred to me today, the 6th of May 2011 while supping coffee and eating a sunrise muffin at £3.45 in Starbucks, I have ceased to matter to anyone. I am clinging to an existence so banal and unfruitful that it is taking all energies from me and leaving me equally empty within the shell of my present fattening shape. It’s like this feeling is some disease that is spreading backwards from my extremities to my heart or my head and into my very ‘soul’. It’s like some numbness, some paralysis, which is leaving me voiceless in such a noisy and ‘word-full’ world. I am empty at my core.

Not so long ago I actual found myself unable to see any part of the journey I was on not filled with a noisy, dense and threateningly cacophonous wordiness. At every point of the compass I saw, or heard or thought about words (in Penryn I think). Usually in either the form of orders, rules or laws or else sales, offers or promises. I just wanted for a while to see, hear or think without vocabulary before my eyes. I didn’t want this so I closed my eyes. I have developed the deep abhorrence to what I don’t want and hatred is a very underrated emotion – I want to kill because of it (latently of cause). I wanted a basic reality where there was nothing spoken, thought or written. Is it the basic humanity in me who aspires to base instincts away from the busy consuming weary wordiness. Everywhere there are colours and textures and large volumes of both. There are bags filled with shoes from Next and a person carrying Ping golfing umbrella and many many more with their chilling brown Primarkian statements.

I return to Wetherby on the X98 to discuss the emotions I feel and the reasons for my sudden understanding or my change inside. With only 2% of my iPhone charge left I will undoubtedly be like Samuel Coleridge soon…

How we drift through the different stages of our life is something we may be hardly aware of unless something truthfully and epiphenomenonly majestic appears? Something so blindingly obvious that it is hard to decide why we’d never seen this thing before.

It is the number 6 – my mothers grill has number 6 as its maximum…why not 5 or 10…it this some Sumerian mystery? As I prepared mini naan breads with homemade onion marmalade and mature cheddar cheese, already grated, I am struck by the reason behind this number 6. I seem to recall having read that their number system was based on the number 6 and it is why we have 144, 24, 12 and 6 so often repeated prior to the decimal system of 5, 10 and 100.

Is this a moment of clarity when I realise the importance of the number 6 to all else in the cosmos; or perhaps just this house with its 10 rooms and 2 gardens (12 spaces in which to ruin ones mind).

As I eat into my lunch at 16;25 on a keyboard where the numeral 2 and the letter V have mysteriously decided to leave the other 100 something keys for reasons they best understand. With the V2 gone the war is recalled and all the interlinked series of events leading from the number 6 to the Second World War and my stuffing my face with the pleasures of bread, cheese, a sweet accompaniment and a grating of fresh black pepper. Its all the same; isn’t it?

Part 2.

Shane bell outside Betfred: this is ubiquity…repeat is this Wetherby’s characteristic ubiquity?

Bar3 has removed Katy and Thatcher’s cider from their pumps so there isn’t a single reason to go there any more and I wandered to bus stop to see I have two choices either 30mins or and hour. I decided to kill 30 minutes however I don’t know why but I just took a step down in my mind. I stepped into the facsimile that was the New Inn(est. 1900) for a woeful pint of Strongbow, with respect the Carling of the cider world. As this is where I spent most of my teenage times and 20’s it nice to look in just for old times sake and maybe one of my old chums would be there to talk to. I concentrated seeing not a real apple anywhere and no one I really knew.

People in 2’s watching the night descending on benches built for 4 near the bandstand. There is something tangible with the warm weather and the slow turgid ponderousness of the Wharfe as it slowly loses its volume to evaporation and the finite quantity of any body of moving water.

Wez Dance is someone who regularly forgets what I am doing and when I am doing it. I could go away for 10 years and, apart from more grey hairs, nothing would ever change with the golfing fraternity in Wetherby; they are circle complete with an interlocking chain. He remembers he hasn’t seen me in a while and asks me how the volunteering is going: I volunteered until May 2010 and not since. It was not for me. Forget not that ‘that’ school is a monster! It made a monster of me and everyone in it and continues to while teachers try desperately to say it isn’t so.

This is not a Hulk T-shirt. This is The Thing (MarvelTm). He’s not green and angry, but orange and hexagonal: how could someone get that wrong?

I drank my poor excuse for cider, Strongbow, and vanished to the bus post-haste, just catching the 19:15 out of the past. A singular Chav got on the bus in Collingham, moved towards the very back of the top deck and a smell of skunk filled the air on the 98. I drift into a dream of me in the past. We’re not in 1998 now (or any year since 1989). Whatever was happening to me by 1998 was worse for me than all the crosses I’ve borne since I returned from Australia in 2000. Drug and alcohol fuelled hiding me from the horror of my father trapping me in his demotic desperation; I disappeared into a colon where I found illegal highs beneficial. Working all day long in the warehouse that Robert Old built to fetter me straight from university, a job that was meant to help pay off my debt but became a very entrapping 2 years of employment. I spent all my extra spare time filling my mind with uppers, downers and hallucinogens; and dancing the nights away (I was 23 when I left university, but I was pointlessly inducing my old age too).

Cricket season is back with the crack of willow on leather. The usual discoloured whites with green streaks and browns. Howzat and not out.

I want to lay in a meadow and leave the weight transcending where clover flowers and amongst the clouds gathering above our dopey heads.

The bus let’s off pressure in great sighs. The hydraulics are malfunctioning and the sun is descending. We stop to wait for time to catch us before leaving Redhall. 17:38pm Friday 6th.

Row upon countless row of indistinct housing. Whether Victorian or mock Tudor or hi-rise somewhere to crawl for a night in safety. I was often jealous of Tess’s flight after the murder. The hidden pleasure of the places they called home; however briefly. I live in a hi-rise with its paper thin walls and zero privacy up down left or right. From my window I can see a 1960’s tower block and believe it is so much better built than the modern 2003 build I am currently living in.

‘Why does mummy hide her body’ says the Somalis boy to his father
‘To deny her sexuality’ says her consciously conscience driven husband.

Beady eye going to Belle Isle for tropical suntan and Lou Reed has been waiting for his man far too long.
Last night was an interesting one – I went back to the flat with 2 bottles of Weston’s Vintage 2010, made more of the Jerk chicken, fried onions, humus and pitta pocket and put my music on as loud as I’ve ever done before. Listening to numerous old 1989 era dance records and dancing my head off. At 11 I ventured out for a couple to Baby Jupiter, which is the closest boho joint, to continue this dancing vibe. I arrived to find faceless hordes drunk and being lecherous and was quickly turned off. I got talking to a very camp chap called Rob soon after arriving and was introduced to all his male and female buddies. Finally a DJ arrived and we got Atomic by Blondie: which was nice. The babyshambles lookalikes that are everywhere today with their perfect long flowing locks curled and set in some wispy semi grunge fake style who are all façade, attitude and as empty as a steel drum (banned). I can’t find any individuality in that mock rough edge: they’re all future Lawyers, Barristers and Politicians. I left them all to their pretensions and returned to loud 1990’s dance until 2am Saturday morning.
Part. 3.

The Ghost part 3

Discovering Michael Chapman, from Hunslet, Leeds, via Cornwall, John Martyn and Roy Harper.

I have mistaken May for summer and now it’s raining and I have no jacket to wear. I’ve written up yesterday’s journal over a filter coffee and a refill and the free wifi that makes that Jewish hegemony worthy, just.

Mum’s new guy is taking her to Otley. She’s taken her Vivitar par excellence hd movie camera on this grey and wet day.

(We sell boxes
We box sellers
We boxers sell
Our unused gloves
Eventually.)

I think that the whole second world war was staged so the Yanks could take over the planet. Why did Hitler declare war on the USA when he was fighting the soviet Russians and British Empire already? What a stupid man or was it a vast plan for the slow tortoise to be there at the end when the blitzkrieg went nowhere and didn’t succeed in the time necessary for the policy? Shear weight of numbers and resources won the war in Europe.

The evilness of the nazi regime could or should never have been allowed in 1923 and in it’s foundation.

All reparations used at the conclusion of ww1 sparked a cultural meltdown in Germany, which need never have happen, leading to a cultural and social revolution. The ‘losing’ factions of ww1 were no clearer victors than the ‘winners’. In a war of stalemate and attrition internal politics defeated the German military machine. With Russia out of the war shouldn’t Germany have won? Why punish anyone for the bloodbath of ww1. So many wonderful progressive young men died for nothing. Maybe the war was fought to purge the Edwardian era of the radicals and the growth of radicalism. Put to death all radicals for naught. Were we so childlike and juvenile to build larger and larger dreadnoughts like boys playing conkers in the autumn school yard.

I have to tell you now that no such undertaking has been received and that consequently this country is at war with Germany. Solemn Neville Chamberlain you let it happen. All politicians since 1919 let it happen.

The gauntlet gloves were off in 1919.

Timothy Taylor’s for a change. Very nice

Looks like my sick, and therefore my DNA, all over Wetherby and perhaps the world? I hope it is worth the acrid?



Part 4.


What a messy day sunday was: all day in bed. I didn’t feel quite normal until 3ish and only left the house at 3:30. Water, cider, water, cider, cider. Chelsea poor, season done and dusted. Home at 8pm for a slap-up dairylea and ham warburton-a-thon. Guess who is there: Snoops. A whole day early, nice. Feel happy with a few chance encounters this weekend that make me feel a little less abandoned entirely.

On Sunday I was most impressed with C. Such a fruity and lusty thing. A plaything with pendulous breasts with a deep inviting cleft between and a right curvaceous body and a nose twinkling with delight. Hair off red turning violet or deeper crimson. Just loves to tell stories in a giddy prose.

Lucy Saturday: short platinum blonde with full pouting lips and wonderful hips. I catch a glimpse of laced white bra and the swell of her charms. My eyes linger. She has bright blue eyes that sparkle in the afternoon light. She is a prize. I forgot my bank card so 1 pint then back for a rest on Saturday. She’s off out in Leeds, with boyfriend no doubt, and she works a barwench magic alright.

Later that night roaming town looking for anyone. Muse no, new inn no, 3hree yes. Paul, Lucy(not the same) milk maid, Claire and another(didn’t ask). 2 pints of cheerless cider and entertainment from SURFU? Sheffield rugby union on tour and singing or serenading 4 brunettes who left taking away a flower box on their coach journey. I failed to realize it is Dan Jones’ birthday.

How busy is that post office in the St. John’s centre? Far too much effort for a meagerly £6 profit.
I finally got a jiffybag: and Airkraft size 0 from WHS. And I think I’ll venture down to Kirkgate PO.

Interview on Thursday at Revolution in The Calls. One will come good? Surely if I stay positive?
And what have I got to lose?

The rain is falling down. Bucketing down. I’m not in a rush. Just bought reduced goods for tea. Will stay in Pret for an Americano.
Ladder in tights. Green fingernails. Painted. High forehead and bee pendant. Or maybe a moth or maybe a flame? Eric the half a bee. Funny how many ladies were stuck in the entrance of Pret while the skies emptied. How they would’ve looked like the drowned rats they positively stink of. What a trivial set of consumer monkeys we have become.

Pub puub? Purb? Peb?

Pleb. I’m a pleb and you are consul? Oligarch chic. Senate/tribune. North south. I don’t want to go to Chelsea.



Part 5.


I am out of the tunnel. Into the bright. I can see the distant lights. I no longer peer from the reverse end of binoculars at the world. To touch the sun and not get burnt is the quest. It is our only rational god. It appeases our daydreams as it shines on our barnets. The anti-D’s are registering I think and also the persistant nice weather helps: I can hear the merry singing of a song Thrush.

Baby it’s alright.
It’s alright.
Sarah Blasko.

I’m dipped in the murky and shady underworld of espionage during WW2. We were desperate not to lose all to Nazi Germany. We played games in Washington just to persuade FdR, etc to save our broken corpse and in the long run also save the USAs bacon whilst at the same time the Germans and Russians were both striving to keep the Americans as isolationists. It exposes the many layers that Britain has that’re fundamental to it’s body politk. The many faceless gentlemen club members who schooled at Eton, worked through theology or classics at Oxbridge came out with a ‘degree’ entered public life in some secure regulating career and perhaps end up as senior civil servants with landed gentrification, honours and ties for favours. While maintaining the same status  quo. This band who suffer the best of life off those without this premium life start must have vested interests putting us where we belong? Ra it’s so unfair to be ruled by those born to boon. I am between the pointless scum and the high appointees in the scrum: squeezed like a mishandled ball too and fro.

I think that maybe all profoundly idelogical dictators have the right to take power, however they see fit, and do as they see fit to all that might stand in their ways as they feel they need to turn over the earth and reap anew? But while king dollar requires his oil and trophies(sports teams) anyone trying to Chavezise or Fidel their country is a pariah.

I realize socialism isn’t enough a label for me so I say ‘down with any property, all want – to stamp out wanton greed and wanton poverty, all ownership must be distrusted, all banks must be held to account for their policies of enrichment. We must all strive for a common unified goal: much like the heroism and self sacrifice of the British from Dunkirk until the bunker. All people must feel included too in this human adventure from womb to grave.

John Martyn – Inside.

Led zeppelin – bron-yr-aur.

I stir to get a Horlicks for a semblance of sleep prior to golden ball’s slumbers. The feather thin partitions that divide up the flat weren’t designed for co-habiting. This isn’t right is it and even if I got a job at Revolution I would have this ceaseless frenzy of copulation every other day always within my hearing. From the next door down comes the intoxicating odour of hash and, with Loverman in the next room, this could be a scene from a Paris alley filled with ‘leprous houses’ within ‘streets that follow like a tedious arguement of insidious intent’. All we need is a stiflingly humid and wretched summer and a few languid celling fans moving stale air and swishing to the sound of choppers passing over head, circa 1968 Paris. I can feel a wave of hayfever coming on as my nasal passage blocks at around 1am.

It takes me back to 1999 when I arrived in Kulua Lumpur mid journey to Perth with a rough 13 hours to kill between arrival and departure. The state-of-the-art airport with its vast air-conditioned monorail terminals and customs exits. I decided I may venture to the city for this 13 hours and perhaps sleep somewhere? There were many bland, but very comfortable looking monoblock hotels on passing from border control.

I had to promise not to remain in Malaysia for more than 28 days and not work while I was in the country of countless swarming millions. My passport had an entry visa bright purple and in the form of a triangle. I actually wanted to see the Petronas Towers in their majestic glory before I arrived dazed and confused in Perth some 30hrs later.

As usual in Asia I stepped from the blissful cool interior of the airport into the wall of dense impenetrable constricting heat of the tropics: an Englishman could never come close to understanding this enormous contrast from jolly Albion. Pink gin I feel Raffles provide to calm ones fever.
During the wait, around 9am local time, my present attire was my marshaling shame: I was in a light weight but very woolen pair of trousers that while absolutely comfortable on the plane from Manchester, were still basically sheep hair and the trickle of sweat on my spine was spreading towards every other possible pore.
I sensed before I got on board the coach toward the destination that my first error on the journey had been met and found naively wanting.

The airport, with it’s clean monolithic and prosperous air, is absolutely not in Kuala Lumpur. It is a veritable lie. I believe the coach took a swift hour and a half to wind it’s way from palm jungle and irrigation ditches towards suburbs and more and more dense cityscape to finally ditch me in the centre of insanely busy Chinatown district with it’s million steaming smells rank and sweet, luscious and repugnant, tempting and foreboding, like a dope fiends worst nightmare something that couldn’t be escaped while mosquitos sucked any remaining  will straight out of your bloodstream and you smoked heavy from an opium pipe to numb the reality.
It was clear I was now shattered from my travel and needed to rest in the wilting humidity and find somewhere cheap but civilized in the interlockingly tight streets and passage ways: i was overwhlemed by the smell of diesel and fresh tarmac on one maintained lane. My options were helped by a fellow traveller, with Lonely Planet, I had come across on the coach journey who was able to take me or actually deliver me to one of the backpackers in the quarter. I arrived in a lobby with an old wizened Oriental lady at the counter who very briefly laid out the tariff and handed me a neat pile of Terry toweling sheets for my private room with air-con.
I remember, as there were no locks on my door and, due our location in Chinatown, I was very paranoid to leave any of my belongings unguarded incase they vanished into this cramped city. I rested tightly holding onto my overnight bag in that hazy jet lagged sleepy place and snoozed a couple of hours to hopefully get my head together. All the time just on the edge of true sleep with my Remington travel alarm within easy reach incase I over slept. The chattering of the air-con was strangely mesmerizing.

Once I ventured to the toilet to discover it was a concrete and breeze-block affair with a fly screen over the cobweb strewn smoky broken window. The concrete had 2 stages of contruction that definately changed in texture,  there was guttering running down the edge towards a plughole: they must’ve cleansed the lavatory with disinfectant and a hose as there was a faint bleach smell? There were probably many guests staying and using the facilities but due to the time of day they were probably sight seeing.

Maybe the fear I held for this hostel would stem from my naive 27 years of age and not any tangible threat. The basic setup is to be discovered wherever tourism is done on the cheap.

After a broken edgy snooze I surfaced, washed my self prefunctorily and set out with overnight bag I carried to see Kuala Lumpur. Stepping from the cool, but ragged room I was thrust back into the overwhelimingly tropical heat. I decided instantly I had to find a clothes shop and ditch my conventional Western look. Woolen slacks indeed! I wandered passways and backstreets to eventually arrive upon some more propersous retail areas and finally located the outlet they called the East India Company which reminded me then of the colonial past and the stretch of trade that lasted in the memories of the indigenous folk and our link to this baking land. With a new purchase of kharki shorts and tee-shirt(X2 of each for £16 ONLY) which lasted me for the entire journey to Sydney before being so sea rotted and faded that I  disgarded them in Melbourne to bring my allowance down in January 2000.
I went to see the colonial past to approached the colonial Indo-Saracenic Revival architecture town hall and other civil service buildings, but I was always fighting against weariness and the never abating heat and precious time by this point. I could see the Petronas Towers from most points in the city, but I never got close to it, like some mighty mirage. It eventually dawned on me I needed a cool cool lager to revitalise me, Ice Cold in Kuala Lumpur? But this being a strictly Muslim country finding a watering hole wasn’t easy, especially without a guide book, and so I drifted  up to a Western looking hotel just at the edge of China Town, which was close to our pick up point, to eat and shelter from the heat. It turned out a lot of the people on the same disrupted flight were to Perth were also in this Hotel so we passed our time until we made that long and tedious trip back to the Airport and we all seemed to have the same oppressive insight into the city in our exhausted states.

I have strangely passionate and vivid remembrance of this stop off as it was all part of my coming of age and my braving conventions that had lead my life from cradle to 27.

Another time’s coming of age was my first sexual awaking – the discovery of my Dad’s stash of European porn circa 1975, and a solitary white vibtrator, all neatly hidden in a brown suitcase at the back of the wardrobe. I recall it being a sensation on the street when discussed by boys who were aged 9 or 10. They wanted to see this thing I had found, like some mystical treasure, and a half dozen very anonymous boys(I only recall one boy in the fog of my memory) ended up comparing erections flicking through RODOX without quite understanding what all this meant. I guess children are too inquisitive for there own good sometimes, but there was no malice and no fear in that strange party. There must be millions of quite innocent discoveries of porn stash hidden away in some mysterious case, box or tucked away in a handkerchief draw and some startling discoveries about the male body. Something men rarely discuss until it’s begun it’s downwards journey and as plantive banter. I dispute that porn is for dirty men, but for self discovery of the male body as never discussed by society and a way to elevate the stress and strain of the female body.

All my memories are arranged in a gridpattern like the pathetic monstrous soldies graves in a regimented Ypres cemetery and I can glimpse them from my own headstone.

I have a round head, but I don’t want to marry a girl with a head like Frank Sidebottom.

Totalitarian nationalism or democratic nationalism: which is more threatening?

(Memory:A breakfast of Iranian figs, beetroot juice before our trip across the fowl mouthing feature. To trip along and languidly design upon St. Mawes.

Carpaccio, Cornish duck. Lucky I have money to roll in for forming luxury. Tips?

Pinot grigio. Tiefenbrunner alto adige, 2008! Spot on for lunch with carpaccio. Nearly Austrian. No cliched Italian veneizan.

Hmmmm. Rested finally from heavy week. Sinking my teeth into duck about now! S. Pellegrino and plonk.

The simplicity of the dark duck meat cake at hotel was excellent: confit.

How would the addition of a slight crunch, like of hemp seeds, have affected that plate?

The meal didst skin me, but I am grateful at £38.)



Part 6.
I have been sending out out of date CVs, dumb fuck. They have no information post 2009. I need to be a little more thorough if I’m ever going to get a job?

Had a lovely night at Bracken Edge. Thai/oriental themed night. Won tons, satay chicken, temporah. Went to bed at 9:30. Woke up at 5:30 fully wide awake. Got a Tropicana orange and lime from the fridge, chucked the dog out my room and went back to land of slumber until 9.

Our end of term/year/school party began at The Buck in Rufforth 1992 and can only be recalled as a drug fueled climax to my A levels.

The copse is a smaller wooded bowl just on the border of Wetherby and Kirk Deighton. It is somewhere that youths must’ve played out there lives for many many years as it is rugged and secluded and out of adult eyes.
I think it was always planned to spend the graduation here. Burning the midnight oil and taking copious amounts of LSD.

I can recall getting 30 trips called ‘bullseyes’ each bullseye made up 4 trips. Someone else called them targets. Whatever. They had alternating colours in groups of 4 and A and I had 30. I’d sold an Armand Basi to Phil for £60 just to get enough funds for the purchase from our man(Nick). It must’ve cost us £120 for all 30. Not sure as that seems a tad expensive. Funny how details like that fade.

At this point I’d been taking acid regularly since boxing day 1989, on most weekends, and it was the only drug in my life(including alcohol) and i think it dominated my life.

This was June of 1992 and it was the end of exams and a long summer before Uni in September for the majority of us.

The weather was great. I can recall being sat on the roof of A’s white Nissan van, absorbing the last rays of the westerning sun and ‘coming up’ in the car park of The Buck.

Now i recall it was a split second decision in which we decided to trip at the copse there and then…D, A and me. Like wildfire everyone knew this was the plan.
I can remember the twilight being warm as we set off from the party, picked up tents, sleeping bags, etc.

The thing that is very clear in my memory is the who’s who of those that gathered that night. Many acid newbies as well as the generation that had been with me through 1990, 1991 and 1992. When you take acid you need people you could rely on the support whatever trip you happened to be on and I believe I was seen as that person by many of my peers.
The joy and tranquility of that first evening seemed to start a ritual that was to last many days until all acid had run out and all of us had lost our minds.
To this day that week is responsible for the destruction of all fences between us and the end of the last bridge on the Old Railway. They went up in flames to keep us warm in the night. We are responsible for regular vertical posts without any horizontal cross posts on the east section of the lines.

I think it is true what they say: LSD’s potency is reduced through successive use. Some tolerance makes the second night almost negligible. Some pathway in the mind cannot be reset in 24hrs so a very distant 2nd trip follows.

There was a certain Robin Hoodness with the green lushness we found in that wood. Even A’s Hugo Boss jumper added to the yeoman green of the evening. The swaying of the heads of the barley, in the field that surrounded the east part of the copse that year, held many a shifting pattern that was reimagined by those of us that ‘be tripping’. The green was everywhere it made the event feel very natural.

When it comes down to it. Between paying bills, boozing, reading, eating food, the never ending journey between Leeds and Wetherby, writing this blog, drinking copious coffees…I feel that that this is all my life amounts to currently. It’s so boring. I might as well just work all the time or go back to acid adventures?

Grey Hawk. Pretty hawk. Preying on me. When on the wing you tear me with talons deep.

Oh yes yes. It is I the paping oap with scuffed black six hole shoes. Worn and abraded. With a blond head of hair. Everything is yes it is. Isn’t it? Sunday lunch for oap. Soap is Oap’s.



Part 8.


Just why
Why just ice.
Ice just ice.
There isn’t any just ice.

When I’d returned from Melbourne in 2000 my first decision was to take any temping job: I registered at Spring Personal and after the preliminary test to ascertain my typing rate I was called and offered a job at Limewood House temping in metering as a data entry clerk. I had worked for YE before my travels and I assumed I’d just pick up where I’d left off. However, after I’d turned up to the job, been told what to do and spent half a day processing sheets of data into a dumb terminal I realized I could never ever return to the me of 8 months ago. There was no way after the freedom I’d enjoyed in Australia I could return to a moody, dark, oppressive clerk position I’d had for 2 years prior. I literally could not take the boring repetitive  process and had to speak to my HR rep at Spring at lunch time telling her this was not for me. Even now 11 years later I can’t take being boxed in an office more than a day. How many temp jobs did I take between January 2000 and April 2007 and how long was I claiming the dole during that time. I had a record of 3 months in most of the temping roles the various Recruitment companies. And those 3 months was infernal. When I finally settle down again in work it was in a customer services environment. I worked from a call centre, to technical services for a brewery and finally technical services for an IT giant. This was a period of regular employment with training sandwiched between TwoTen Coms, Coors and Fujitsu. When I finally walked out of Fujitsu in Wonderful Wakefield never to ever want to put on a plantronics headset on again. I call these 4 years my call centre wilderness years. From when I quit Fujitsu in January 2006 until joining the YHA in April 2007 I worked in a string of poorly paid and soulless jobs Zurich risk services for a month, the DWP for the summer 2006: where I was an admin assistant the most menial clerk in the belly of inefficiency that is Lawnswood with it’s second world war structures and buried soulless employees. I had to leave very very suddenly incase I was trapped in this none place. Over the christmas period I worked for Virgin Megastore where I realized that the music industry was an equally soulless and desperate place. In the end I paid my Bankruptcy and left the flat at 97 and left Yorkshire for East Sussex and a whole new me.
I miss the YHA.



Part 9.
What might’ve been?
Victoria Street. The house @ £41,000 in 1995. Almost £29,000 above the candy shop. Simon Gordon and I. Stability and possibilities. No real risk when looking back. I was working at ROCOM. I was banking with Barclays. I had a PEP. No chance with Victoria Street. Not enough space in the second room to rent out. Large enough for a baby, bairn or child. But Crossley Street was a blank canvas. Was an office. 4 large rooms on 2 floors. It’s now 2 flats. Shit we missed our chance there didn’t we Muller?

Why would a young mum of chav nature feed her child crisps: Wotsits to keep it quiet? Manufactured horrible. What will that young body do with all that hydrogenated fat and processed food?
Why are you so oblivious?

This journey to and fro proves to me there isn’t any hope for England.

As Daniel, Megan and I set off for Cable Beach, Broome we were coming towards a road kill with 2 birds picking at the leftovers on the Tarmac. Only as we got close enough to make out what birds they were did we realise how large these 2 birds were. As we got to within 15 feet or more finally 2 huge brown eagles took flight. They both just coasted over the bonnet of Dan’s Holden 3.2litre Ute. They were awesome in their majesty. I am so glad for seeing them that close and I am very glad they took off in time.
Those two weeks in Broome during the festival staying at the Kimberley Klub were pure and simple. The people who I met from the day I arrived until I finally arrived in Darwin 2 weeks later will be forever friends
My journey from arriving in Perth and eventually getting to glorious Broome was a series of life changing adventures.

I had bought a greyhound ticket that would take me from Perth to Sydney with unlimited stops and a couple of excisions: Kakadu and Great Keppel Island. I had been in Perth and the south west, trying to find work, find somewhere to live and for some reason settle down. Until I ventured to Albany and Pemberton I didn’t know why I was in Australia. It took me a few weeks(6 or so) to do something unique. When I arrived on the 30th June I went about setting up my life in Perth. As though this was where I was going to spend 12 months. I looked at a house in both cottesloe , leederville and finally settled in one in Victoria Park: a run down colonial style town house owned and let by a Maori, with a mongrel dog, who was a rugby player in Perth. I paid very little, including bills, for a room in a termite infested red tin roofed house with a room on a second floor that was inaccessible due to this tragic infestation: their were termite mounds hanging from the celling in all the rooms which shared the same space as that upstairs room. I lived with Paul, his gf from Bideford and one other girl for a month before they bought a misibishi sigma and drove off to Albany with me following behind on the Great Western coach. The car they bought was one of them well preserved 1980’s items that are ubiquitous in oz. I read a lot, worked for a landscape gardener for a few days, tried to set up an Internet cafe for a dodgy wheeler dealer who took $26 from me to find me no work for 6 week even though we ended up socializing together at the jazz bar next to Brass monkey’s (possibly the best bar I’ve been anywhere on my extensive travels).

I arrived in Australia on the 30th June 1999. After 45+ hours traveling to this final destination I came through customs, had my passport stamped and Visas checked. It was 3am and gratefully Emma had arranged for a friend to pick me up and give me somewhere to stay until my jetlag was slept off. Lisa was waiting in the lobby of Perth international airport, we said hello and she told me it had been no problem meeting me as she worked until this time at the Burswood Casino as a crupper, we left for her car(an ancient Mazda) and drove through the deserted streets to her apartment in North Perth. We got on pretty well and she was very accommodating. She’d sorted me out a comfortable sofa bed in the front room. I was asleep almost instantly as soon as we’d got back to the flat. She left for work mid morning and I told her I’d not put upon her more than the one night: I think I was absolutely shattered but I couldn’t stay: I just couldn’t. It was a paranoid self justification. I think the journey had made me psychotic. The next night I stayed at the YHA and I never saw Lisa again. She must have thought me very odd, not respecting her hospitality and leaving after 1 day, but I really wanted to do this thing alone. Unsupported. I had a single terrible nights sleep in the YHA.

The next day I located a much more laid back and friendly backpacker opposite Perth train station and booked in there for a week. I afforded the luxury of a private room with shared facilities on the third floor. I think it was a hotel backpack, globe backpackers or some such with a travel centre and currency exchange on the ground floor on Wellington Street. It was slightly rundown, but it was popular and more party styled than the YHA   I’d stayed in on North Street. I was looking for work, but also fun.
In those first two weeks of my arrival I thought that I’d made a huge mistake leaving my job, coming to Perth to find work and to be completely undecided why I was in Australia. I had acted on an impulse and was only drawn to Perth as I’d school here in 1987/88. Once I arrived in Perth I had no idea what i could do. I assumed incorrectly I could find work for the energy corporations in Perth, but although I wrote to them I never heard from their HR departments. I worked for a day attempting to sell books of discounts offers cold calling through the Perth telephone directory in an ad-hoc office off the high numbers on Hay Street: I earned nothing and was told I didn’t have the skills to get the deal and this was a good thing in hindsight. I was told by numerous temp agencies it was the wrong time of year (winter) for most seasonal opportunities (even harvest had passed) and all the warm weather jobs were months away: I was offered a job planting trees with the forestry commission down south, but the shear scale of the piece rate blew my mind: 1000 trees for a dollar.

My most vivid recollection of that backpackers is watching the rugby with a bunch of pommes, who’d already done the tour of Oz and were about to return home, public school rugby boys without a care in the world. I was grudgingly accepted into their clique for a few days. Very much on the fringe. That night we all drank copious Carlton cold and Emu lager and I went to bed satisfied I’d never really ‘like’ knobs. I went to bed and woke up around 2am for a urinary movement. I stepped out of my room forgetting where I was, I went and did my business and returned the short distance (undressed) without my door key and unable to get back in my room (self locking dead lock): bollocks. I was on the third floor stark bullock naked at 2am. I only had 1 option. To go down to reception and hope I made it down all those floors without meeting anyone! I am most fortuitous that I arrived at the reception desk without anyone (apart from CCTV) catching me Au Natural! I explained my predicament to the night security guard who laughed copiously and gave me a spare key. Problem solved; on the edge of hearing I could make out the party continuing in the lounge but they didn’t look my way.

After i lived out of my suitcase for some time I decided i needed to ditch it for something more user friendly for backpacking: a Caribee rucksack with day bag.
I got this backpack from the army surplus store further along Wellington street, dumped my suitcase with my step sister up in Heathridge, Joondaloop, i bought a ticket to circumnavigate australia for a thousand dollars and leaving for first Albany and Pemberton in south west and then the pinnacles desert @ Cervantes I started on my roadtrip to Sydney.



Part 10.


Oh no, I have developed an abscess in my left earlobe. It regularly bleeds when I squeeze it slightly. I think it’s appeared where I used to have a piercing? It’s like a bump that feels empty until I start playing with it. If I don’t touch it it never disappears. At times it is larger than at other times. I discovered I have a new one on the lobe of my right ear last night, but that ear was never pierced. They both bleed and when they bleed they’re are slightly sore after, but not intensely so: infact the gentle pulsating pain is soothing.
I took one antisemitism look around Starbucks and decided I couldn’t pay for my antisemitism: came to Caffe Nero Espresso Bar on Albion street (good old romantic Albion Street) and away from Kosher Coffee.
Hitler and co. were trying to kill all Jews in Europe before they were defeated. It was a desperate game they were in. They knew they had no time but had to achieve this one goal, as if the world post war depended on it entirely. I really think Hitler wanted this to be his one clear ‘achievement’ if it could possibly be called that?
The guy with a beanie in Nero’s sounds like he is whipping someone in a back room. I can hear the recoil of the cord. I wonder if they are using ‘man power’ here with the surplus of manpower in Leeds. It be a good way to be carbon neutral and get fit. A bit like being a slave on a Roman Galley, each wrench of the oars making a considerable pile of coffee!


(Memory: Today, what of it, that is left I brought you rocket, olives and bruschetta bread
For me the stage was set for resting amongst the noises feeding my head
Right amongst the section of architects stones stood such spitting scholar
Closed eyelids and puffy face while waiting to face heavens appeasement
The craft of which you speak hasn’t levened cleavers leaving me dead and hollow.
My pedimental marble is cold and unfeeling framed against a rattling voice.
Fucking further than I forsaw from the distance of 5pm and 8pm.)
(Memory: Dogs are clumsy and generous
Cats are dainty and mean
Dogs are rough and ready
Cats are shirts and tidy
Dogs might whiff a bit
Cats will usually smell serene
Dogs take a life of walking
Cats make a life of stalking
Dogs can’t take solitary life
Cats are happier on their own
Dogs are part of the family
Cats scorn friendship alone.
Dogs are always hungry
Cats are usually lean
Cats make giant furballs
Dog licks their balls
But the they both make us happy
When we return after a long day
From the trials and tribulation
Of that thing we call an occupation)
(Memory: What is this bean which demands so much o’er us?
Half the planet over is in ruin in barista or plantation growers
Or major corporate density method.
Where once tea was the madness that we shared
Now coffee is the branch of chains
Like slaves rowing to a distant land
Locked synchronized we spend all alone
Maybe in huddles or meeting
Where poets and revolutionaries once demanded more.)








Part 11(another ghost).


If you happened to see a ghost how could you be sure it was a ghost? Other than approaching the ghost and asking, quite politely, ‘are you a ghost?’ If you let that ghost walk by then you could never know for sure. If you were to ask someone you thought was a ghost if they were a ghost, and they weren’t, what expression would that person take? I see lots of people close to death, but today I watched a ghost cross from the County Arcade to the Thorton Arcade. The clue that led me to believe this man was a ghost was the locomotion employed to cross the distance of those 30/40 feet and his pale and shadowy persona. I am looking at other people in the same space, but they don’t maintain that same corpse distinction. The greyness and the physically tinged aspect.


Part 12.


I am slowly building up to explode. I feel like the answer I have been waiting for is ready to present itself to me. I sense it is a final and certain destiny. It’s just beyond me now, but I feel like it’s in me. Some explosion of angst and frustration that means all I’ve lived for in 39 years is stoking the furnace of confusion and muddle. Every time I sit in company or near company I begin to panic that I will wobble and deflate in a stare or glance. Only today in Waitrose I couldn’t act normally or inhesitantly when purchasing my few items: 2 mozzarella, cherry tomatoes, Maldon salt crystals and discounted sausages. Some guilt was on my face: like I was using a stolen credit card to purchase these items. I couldn’t look convincingly into the cashiers eyes. I felt weighted down by manifestations of guilt. I’m surprised I wasn’t also blushing. Blushing for my poultry fayre? I absolutely have no idea. I feel almost that the person I am facing might catch me in this slide towards the blinking realization I feel coming. My insight about the sheer futility that we humans are becoming. I am squirming against this overt flaw and my role in making us change our patterns to the forces and currents that pull us toward doom. Only yesterday I wanted to shout and point and gesture and contradict the need for the conformity some retiree English teacher was forsoothing in a creative writing workshop. I felt that his structured outline of meter, feet, stanza, iambic fecking pentameter, trokian, etc was counter productive to the persons present. We spent 2 hours in what essentially was a poetry mechanics lesson. He had a snow plough of theory and nothing would budge him in his tirade. By issuing us with carboncopies of Shakespeare, Keats and Wordsworth and getting us to mark all the stressed words in all the texts following his ‘rules’ and I just wanted him to see that it wasn’t important. Please just shut up old derelict man with your dialectical drivel. But I seethed in silence in that holy church the meeting was being held. I have always been polite and silent against this stance of arrogant ‘I told you so’ and ‘I know more than you’ forever. It’s outrageous to have to listen to this form and function of indoctrination every single day. It’s dementing and insane that all individual effort is nothing against this absolute zero.


Misplaced part 6.


December 7th 1941 is a day that will live in infamy.

Walls that are composed from sandstone are eroded in time.

No coffee since Tuesday morning.

I am very tired. Fair to say I am thinking of nothing to write. I’m battling an addiction I didn’t know I had. Perhaps five cups of brewed coffee a day at most. I am tired and could’ve followed yesterday’s golden slumber from 3:30pm until 8:30pm. When most of the nation was preparing to head for home, family and dinner I drifted away.

Why building college? There isn’t anything to build. The conservatives will put a stop to any public building projects: that leaves private corporate enterprise when all the banks won’t lend.

I am in a strange paralysis which hopefully a triple espresso can shift?

That derrière is marble.

The Oreo invasion: we have our own biscuits. Fuck off back to the States!

May? Yep the weather says it all: sunny, but often windy and cloudy.

Just had a look at Revolution and had a very neutral interview. Not feeling it. Did what I could, without pleading!

Old flatmate: circa 2001. What was her name. Perfectly repulsive girl. Arrogant solicitor. Whatever happened to the New Zealand guy and the one who worked at Topman?

Julia Bradbury, the walking man’s crumpet, was in Icelandlast night sinking into a hot spring in a bikini…oh how I love to be doing the same. Iceland has everything in one place it seems. Crazy geological splender.



Part 13.


Old clothes. I find it hard to throw away a load of clothes from the early 1990’s.

I have a cabinet filled with a number of tee-shirts and jumpers I will probably never wear again and a few items on hangers that sit there looking uncomfortable and unwanted. SF mentioned the orange quilted Chipie jacket I wore to every acid hazed event from 1989 to 1998, until it was literally worn out. It is sat there in my wardrobe reminding me of other times: fond and simple times.

Been in Leeds for 2 whole nights so far, a third tonight and a whole days work in a school on Friday. I’m looking forward to this as it’s more like what I want to do; I think?
Made an effort on the food front last night. Bought strong flour from Millies and created luxurious homemade pizza a la Leodis. Blanched asparagus spears, refreshed in cold water, slow baked santorini tomatoes, wilted rucula, buffalo mozzarella, rosemary and four cheese sauce as the base. Flawless. I offered one to Anthony, but he was off to get his helmet polished. They were so nice that I had both! All that bread! My word; gas?

Wow, body of marble. Every aspect a work of art, crafted from the whitest fault free calcite.

Stiff neck 3 days. Tension maybe.

4 pints at North bar: 1 Morehouse, 2 Bristol Port  cider, 1 Odell’s ipa. Slowly winding down to zero.

The social fund owe me £17. Which should arrive by Friday or Monday. Very useful. Finally I will get my P45 from Millies on Friday. Got a feeling I am due a tax rebate. A large one.

Pizzeria Leodis.

It’s now been 2 hours since I left the flat. I’ve had lunch. But now I know I’ve got to move. I wish I could just chill somewhere: the flat is somewhere to sleep, eat, wash and be bored. I am infinitely bored.

Went to sainsburys picked up things for pasta tonight – portabello mushrooms, smoked bacon and, for tomorrow, breakfast juice.

Today is listing lists. They list heavily in Headingley like a spiraling bent tower of serialisms.

I am in the clock cafe in LS6; now known as LS6: A successful venture.

Cracking ass: first place.

Pete, and Colin and dog, Ringo, who dislikes black trousers. Actually attacked bad fitting black slacks. We were in hysterics: ‘keep your dog under control’. It’s such a small schlaffy. Miniature Schnauzer.

Beer for outer space. Schnapps of Tabasco.

I don’t want anti-semitism to become my tomb stone epitaph. I do accept everyone as an individual. But I can’t deal with the reality of belonging to something hereditary and self perpetuating or a club that pretends it has god given speciality.  It is arrogant to forget we’re all in this existence together; we’re meant to overlook the larger community?

Shockingly hungover at 6am the result of over consumption of Kalms herbal sleeping tablets: 6 not 3 and an empty stomach. Threw up some yellow bile and lots of empty retching. Got to work on 50a in the outskirts of Kirkstall. Had to hold in the rising of my retching. Thought I’d have to get off early, but just managed to stay on the 20 minute journey. Those hungover journeys are some of the best of your life? Depends where you are heading I guess. I arrived with 20 minutes to spare, having first taken the wrong turn. It was the most impressive and clean environment I’d ever seen for a kitchen. Spotless. Satanically clean. I had some time to adjust to the menu for the day: fish and chips for tots: 20 miniature portions. By 7:50 I was hurling all my mouth into a spick and span porcelain toilet. Finally there was a little more yellow bile than the air I’d had before. And the stars in front of my eyes. That solved the first problem of the day. From then on I needed coffee. I felt so unprofessional in that state, I am glad I didn’t need a knife once; I’m sure I’d have cut myself freely. The combination of 3 pints of Cider, 6 Kalms and 4 hours sleep: not a great remedy for a long life! Coffee: 2 * instant teaspoons(life measured in coffee spoons) and on the path to that Friday.



Part 14.


I have decided to remove some of the uncontrollable hairs flourishing all over my shoulders and back. I feel that I am looking grizzly like the Sasquatch. I do dislike the rampant sprouting of hairs everywhere but on my head. But you’re a man, I hear you say, get a hold of yourself! I’m gonna Veet myself on Thursday.

The wind is gusting today, up to 70 mph, and it’s whistling through the trees, it’s fairly humid with it and in the distance I can hear the incessant wail of a car alarm.

My tax repayment claim is sent recorded delivery. I have £500 to come back to me from 2 years of overpayment. Very useful as I can pay off the credit card; the last debt I have since my bankruptcy in 2007. It would be great to have a level playing field if I am to earn this haphazard wage while working for the city council.

Interesting Saturday watched Kirk Deighton 2nd’s knock up 240 in the cricket in 45 overs. Dan, Nick with his son Cameron, Scott and co. Some ciders and some sandwiches. Big John hit 131(very efficient). We’re off again on Saturday. Not a bad way to spend a Saturday afternoon really.

I was going to hang about until Wednesday in Wetherby, but I now need to go to Leeds to cash my refund from the social fund. I’ve no desire to spend a single broken nights sleep at number 97 and I think I may be working quite regularly through Citigroup, so it would be better to sleep central.

Last night I made a very tasty roast chicken thigh meal, rice a la Uncle Ben’s. Cajun spiced and a lovely Butter Chicken sauce. Yum Yum…

Have no option but to return to Leeds to cash in the refund. I hate the new way this is run. You collect a ticket and fight over limited seating with selfish and rude foreign customers. There I was in a full house at the Post Office in the St Johns when a West African lady, large booty, shoved into the space between me and another customer. I declare to obnoxiously take that space from us both. I hesitated then spoke my mind, ‘You fat fucking bitch move your ass you dirty bitch hoe!’

Refugees? I don’t think there is a place more happy to welcome a weight of people who have taken all the menial work and reside in Starbucks from dawn to dusk in ethnic dress.

When did I last see Leeds as a prize? I think I used to enjoy it when I lived in Meanwood(2001) and in the Methleys Chapel Allerton(2003) and, more recently, Roundhay(2010). I can’t say the desolate canvas of 97 has been anymore than a place of favour for Glenn. I guess it as all helped him ‘own’ the flat he’s mortgaged to. A loud and perpetually empty space. Black kitchen furniture that is dirty, greasy and unloved by all persons since I stepped out in 2007; flapping fridge door, lost hob top knob, etc. Dusty red couched and loose floor tiles: ubiquity of laminate, rusting garden furniture and dead or dying yucca palms and bamboo that no Panda bear would find any nourishment in. A north facing balcony that sees sun for a month, but wind and squally rain all year round.



Part 15 (and some things about my bankruptcy)


It isn’t as bad as you think: it removes you from the lenders and banks various grasps. You have to wait for 6 years to get back to a positive credit rating it seems, but you are left without any anxiousness and sleepless nights fretting about bailiffs and debt collection calls.

I fell for the trap of loans, credit, overdrafts and higher purchase with the promise of have now and pay later lifestyle. While my wage was scant enough to pay my debts I tried always to subsist within the luxury provided by numerous credit cards and loans while my take home was squeezed to an impossibly low level.
When I was asked to leave by Coors Brewers in 2003, due to my health issues, I had huge and unsupportable debts that made my overall state of mind worse and sent me into a real break down.

I started seeing a Counsellor and a Physiologist through Coors and Bupa, health care provided by work, in June and July 2003, we discussed the reasons for my declining mental state and it became apparent I was still fighting my dead father(deceased 2001).

Some constant pain and hatred in my memory was preventing me from living my limited and boring life without this constant sense my prime had been taken away from me by a very selfish and thoughtless man. I was in my 30’s and was already past my ‘best’ years. I had spent 1992 to 2001 listening to a constant stream of insults and anger directed at his estranged wife, my mother, and her new man. For 10+ years, more or less every day, I would call in to my father’s to go through the same circles of self pity and vehement anger. My life didn’t seem to feature in this landscape: I was the bottle neck or conduit for the fury.

Since my last course of CBT in 2009/2010 and the anti-D’s I have taken since then I don’t really care what my father did to me in those years: but I still think he was a wanker for overlooking me the way he did and I will never let a woman take away my mind the way my mother did in his case.

Bankruptcy was one of the steps of breaking away from the past. I reduced feel good debts to a court appearance and 6 years in creditary wilderness. I still have an Orange phone contract, but I wonder how long I will have that?

Life is certainly circumstantial and I truthfully believe in nuture not nature.



Part 16 (UTTERLY)


You see, today I am staring at utter despair. I can’t see any future for me. Every thing I ever wanted is gone. I’m just plodding along without any clue what this life is all about. I sink so often that I only recover because, as long as I get over today, there isn’t any further emptiness I can feel. Every thing I do is empty.


Part 17 (religion and my part in its downfall)
Wow. Flaming pie. Religion. It’s like a blind alley for helplessly chased refugees. No where to go but down and down to the brick wall of supposed salvation. We don’t know. To believe is an oxymoron. If I believe the world is made from soiled Japanese school girls panties does this belief make it incontrovertible? Belief presupposes stupidity and ignorance and maybe a desperate need to justify an incredible thing in human terms. A revelation is a kin to trapped wind or the passing of a wet shit into the toilet of insanity. Look at the bible: it is a book. Hundred of years old, and full of the rules, ethics and morality of the human race but essentially a moral tale with lots of faith bound lessons. Enough. There is no point in justifying your existence to a book. It is written by humans, prove me otherwise.


Part 18 (and the end of 97)


I’ve had one of them days. From first leaving the house with the north westerly creaking through the trees. To returning to the mess of 97. It’s a cursed day. 23 May 2011 you will be infamy. I will now quit this no go. I can’t maintain this unreal drifting in the tower of doom. While the hurricane spins around the banks of the Aire and beyond. Bringing brimstone and frightening ferocity that would try to remove us who are sinned against. More sinned than sinning. I have no options here.

part 19 (Champion the Wonder Horse)

No idea what was happening on Monday to make me feel so panicked. I told Matt at North I was sinking into bad depression.
There is numerous separate problems that spread from Monday to Friday that are pushing me closer to alcohol oblivion at the weekend.
A job, a calm peaceful flat, something else in leeds, money and some mental relief.

Took to bed at 11:30 last night having taken beta blockers and Kalms. Unwound until around 12:30, but even with ear plugs in could hear the various sounds of this deafening abode. Laid turning over and over unable to turn off. Fear was in my head. However he returned along around 12:30 alone. Still I turned and rolled in a heightened state. My arms ached and pulsated. I couldn’t relax them. Must’ve slept at 2 or 2:30am. Then awoke at 6am and I am in the hazy post drugged sleep deprived state. I feel nothing except my body is stretching and yawning and wanting to return to sleep.

My earliest clear memory is being in an ill state. We lived up on the east cost in Easington, near Loftus, dad had a fish and chip shop, a Moscowvich van to carry stock, we lived in an old farm house next to the church at the end of the village and across from the post office. We had a large front garden and a goat and a back garden with chickens. The house had 3 bedrooms, a huge kitchen, and a large front room, the toilet/bathroom was at the front of the house and was a later addition. The house was at least Victorian, if not earlier.
I had a fever or something like flu I trembled and had cold/hot sweats. I recall having Champion the Wonder Horse on the TV, black and white with a dial to tune in the tv, it was a very terrible 1950’s cartoon made into a show: a children’s Western. I recall the images on that flickering screen being very bright which I think was a result of my heighten state not the TV. That theme tune has stuck in my head as the first clear memory. A boy, a horse and I also think a dog who together fought injustice and tyranny in the wild west. Terrible acting and concept, but somehow subliminal. I could sing the theme tune still. I think the sound of that theme tune helped me to recover some senses.



Part 20.


And she’s doing cuts and colours…
A rhythm of chops, shears, snips
Complete in vibrant gloss style
Us women eating gristle and skin
Puckering with blood stained lips
A cuticle removed by rusting file
Rouge tinged cheeks hiding.

Why do we sleep? What does it do to our hopes and dreams? It always seems so hard to get, yet we find ourselves there in a second without our knowledge. I have always wondered when sleep comes; in which disguise.

While I lived with Glenn we went to Prague for a few days the first week of September. We arrived at the Czech Inn, our backpackers in Vinohrady, on a Tuesday evening around 10pm, having taken the usual bus and tram route from the airport. We were very excited to have ventured out on Jet2at such a handsome price, this is before budget airlines added lots of additional costs, and had only paid £50 return.
Once we’d chucked our baggage in the shared dorm on the 1st floor, quickly saying hi to our room-mates, we went down into the bar: we were followed down by an American in his 50’s who was also in our room. We needed food quickly as neither of us had eaten recently and I really wanted to take Glenn directly to VinárnaU sudu the labyrinthine bar I had discovered while staying in the Golden Sicklehostel all this years ago and then to Cafebar o2 the converted convenience I’d discovered on my most recent Visit.
I’ve visited Prague and the Czech Republic some 5 times between the time I went with Tom and mum for my birthday in 2001 and most recently while I worked in Sherwood forest at Edwinstowe 2008. In 2008 I spent 2 weeks travelling east around Moravia and south in Bohemia with a brief 2 nights either side in Prague.
Prague was quiet that first night, we got a Mcdonald’s from near or next to the church of St Ludmila in Vinohrady: a glorious brick built neo-Gothic cathedral positioned in the square Náměstí Míru.

The carbuncle of an American all obvious gun-ho bravado and constantly challenging. A self confessed sex tourist, but a manic teacher too, TEFL English as a second language, took us from U Sudu to a dim and often used bar in the underbelly, slimy, sleazy and often used by sex tourists. Always blank eyed, soulless monsters with drooling dribbly ready sneer. In that short time between our arriving and the journey into Nové Město, 2 small 0.4l Pivo Plzeňský Prazdroj (Pilsner Urquell) and that underbelly on Václavské náměstí we were asked to part with numerous Koruna for a already poured third Urquell. We watched the show, the tit parade, the strip, a female dance to entice us to give away more of our moneys in more private affairs.
It was something in the drink, I swear, but I found myself being beguiled by a charming Ukrainian dancer by the name of Alena; slim, toned and every appearance of perfection on her slightly bronzed 20 something body. I know I’d never part with money for any kind of sexual act again, but in Prague I admit I did. The event will remain with me clearly, the cost and the pretend meaning I held for those brief moments of Czech pneumatic bliss. To know that a woman of such beauty had to come to that, however much money she made, and this was one of the only ways I ever spend more than a passing acquaintance with anyone 22, interesting and beautiful again…u
Green grocers on Street Lane is now a deli and The Shoulder of Mutton on Potternewton Lane is now Inkwell.

Part 21 (the ghastly)

Selectively mute. Anxiety. Weighed down with fear.
Was bullied at primary and secondary school, dislike playlike banter and insults.
Reinforces feeling of inadequacy.
Being quiet won’t hurt.

I went to the Inkwell, part of Mind Leeds, in Chapel Allerton. Had a spot of food, coffee, listened to music and a little light comedy. Suddenly Felt I just had to leave. Had no one to talk to there. Same feeling of wanting to hide away. Didn’t want to look in the eye of anyone there. Just travelled back on 48. No idea why this palpitating keeps coming back. I am threatened by this end.  Inkwell maybe does well for those knocking on heavens door. I might be closing in on that, but not yet: not right now.
Some of the artwork on display is genuinely brilliant. Some is half hearted. Some delicate sketches of bodies and a few in a post-impressionistic style.
I am en-route to Cornwall again. 3/4 months of slog and sun and sea too. Always a job needs doing in a tourist town. I’m bringing my stuff back from 97 on Friday. Will need to cancel bills before I retreat. Not such a bad thing. Moved to Leeds with promise from Millies. That went nowhere. Move on.

Part 22(I have a bike and you can ride it if you like)

I think that I might actually be right and absolutely not alone; oh joy to feel that I am not alone; thank you LP.

The capitalist world is lost on a journey of self destruction. Some of us look around and wonder why the majority are greedy, selfish and barbaric. Closed in by the tyranny and violence of a small section of the populace. Open to businesses greedy single erect purpose while government bends to become an anal love child of fawning condescension. Where armies destroy thousands of helpless people for the security of the earth’s limited finite resources, picking on the unfortunate individuals repressed in the backwaters where we find most of the fundamentally precious minerals they need to keep the wheels in motion. Those who allow for no separate plan of humanity except short term financial vying – balance of trade, trade deficit and boom and bust. Men and Women sit on their banks of cushioned thrones and decide divisions of labour in far away lands to present the the more affluent ‘classes’ in the world to part with cash for stimulation in pretty trinkets and glittery rings, and the Nitrazepam of media, internet, social networks.

I want to know why it is I, sometimes, work and earn a pittance?

I own no ornament or jewellery – I read, I write, I sing(to my self), I drink a lot (coffee, tea and booze) quite often, I cloth, I shave, I wash, I wish and I listen to music some times, I stare at beautiful women and must fall in love 50, 60 times a day, I tell my dog he’s the best dog in the world, I walk and run and chase and exhaust him. I have lots of shoes and clothes that reflect some childlike need to return to 1983, 84, 85 or 86. I collected pretty stamps that smell of age and remind me of geography and history and maps that were mostly enslaved in pink, imperialism and arrogance. I like the art of stamps, the creative minds that drew these 2cm. All were once lovingly produced from engravings – a design etched into a steel die and produced with such a multitude of styles and either imperforateor officially perforated: they are small, delicate and pretty(it is my folly), and I guess sometimes I do masturbate (I fear waning like virility with the passing of time and the falling of tears) and please someone will you find me and pull me out of this ditch quickly; I’m up to my waist in muddy sand)

Most important for me is experience: I must travel along humanities many wonderful streets and highways; taste, smell, confide and confess all. Smile and laugh, be open and honest and state quite what I mean, as otherwise I state nothing at all.

I want to scream that no amount of coffee, cleaning or arse cleansing is worth £5.93 an hour. We are meant to be in love with, love each selflessly and care for everyone in our hive like society.

OK there will always be leaders and followers in this crazy mixed up world, but there isn’t any reason for those leaders to try enslave us with the system that clock like and symmetrical keeps us trapped cogs against our limited time.

I want the world and I want it…NOW!

(Memory:
o o o o that shakespearian rag line.
stick with me in this line.
long arm of the law line.
yard arm line.
a stitch in time line.

yard of ale line.
a bird in the hand is worth two in bush line
gules three lions passant guardant in pale or armed and langued azure line
shandy drinking puff line.
we’ve run out of bog paper line.
strictly political motive line.

put that in your pipe and smoke it line
pretty va-cant sounds 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.
autological line.
just stop-starting line.
we always pretend line.
in line.
the line.
head line.
sublime line.

rum and lime line.
life line.
flat line.
mar line(an australian pun).
…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.
e-line.
we’ll boycott the line.
LBW line.
not cricket line.
not for turning line.
alan turing line.

grand turismo line.
in time line.
a pretty ugly line
marginal line.
spot-the-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 line line.
stop playing that triangle line.
raisin’ hell line.
a.n. 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.
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 nolonger 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 soil line.
what these lines!
the beatles and not the stones line.
chat_up_line.
chavs rounded up and then shot in line.
burberry – nuffsaid line.
you haven’t listened to a word i’ve said 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’m 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 granade of antioch line.
human-fly line.
the beginning of the end line.
that old y2k line.
we’re now in line.
you doubt me line.
twenty times a day line.
autoline.
is it bugging you yet line.
@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 & me line.
this is the end line.
and it just fades away line.
leave you knives in your luggage line.

last game of life line.
off the mortal coil line.
byeeeee line.)





Part 23 (old Sam and a bloody mess).

This spring snoops has fallen into a habit of scratching at his door at 5am. His incessant request to be let into our beds and his shifting body, from then until we wake, is making us tired by lunch time.

Mum fell heavily on her knee while chasing the Harrogate to Wetherby 770 bus yesterday. I took snoops for a morning swim in the sluggish Wharfe. She’s laid up and canceling all her social occasions and suggesting she may need to venture to a&e. Her knee, although bruised and painful, won’t be broken as she’d be agonizing and be unable to walk on it? I have tried to talk her out of a long and unnecessary trip to Harrogate hospital.

I see that preschools now have a safety measure in place to prevent the kind of accident I had early in my school life. At Loftus Infants/pre school I put my right smallest finger in the space between the hinge and the door and had my finger split from tip to first join. It was my third or fourth memory, one may be false and a memory of my mothers I’ve assumed to be my own. I was rushed to a hospital to repair the vivid and deep wound. I recall the doctors made a decision not to use stitches or a thing they called a butterfly stitch. Whatever they did has left my right hand deformed with a tear like bulge that has foreshortened the final section of that digit. I look at it now in it’s dumpiness and recall the colour of the gashed skin: a deep purple. I was a child who’s finger was saved in time. I think that health and safety requirement in preschool is a useful one.

My second memory is our dog, a Red Setter called? Hmm… Sam. Almost forgotten! Getting run over escaping from our garden and coming to meet mum and me and Emma. I heard the screech of brakes, the simultaneous smell of  burning tire rubber, the thud and yelp of surprise and pain, the wail of pity and desperate urgent need and then the terror struck moaning of my mother: we were a young happy family and that dog was a short part of our early life as a unit in Easington.
I’ve no idea who ran Sam over or how they felt in that instant. They maybe were dog lovers and suffered horrendous grief. Poor Sam, a giddy and reckless dog free with careless fun and adventure. He was put down.
Today is windy and torrentially wet, sweetly humid and carrying that smell I associate with summer storms: like a mighty night in July 1994 when it bucketed and sparked luminosity across the skies from 11pm until I had to rise for breakfast shift at 6am the Jarvis Hotel. People duck into Pret to hide the fury.

Part 24 (they call it acieed)

The night club in Harrogate where I spent a hell of a lot of Fridays and Saturdays was then known as Elevens Club. Run by Dio who vetted everyone coming into the club individually: for fashion fohpars as well as age concerns and his unique sense of who was right for his club.  It’s where we went to hear Tim Garbutt play a varied mixture of dance, hip hop and anything in-between. Many anthems, Landlord, French Kiss, DJ Mark the 45 king, 2 in a Room, etc, were born there between 1989 and the point where Tim and Dez, the hairdresser, started Hoof, introducing DJ Tim ‘sense invader’ Garbutt, in Legends. Apart from us from Wetherby, and a hand full of Jewish lads from Alwoodley(Jackie Katz, etc) in their snazzy spatz, suits and shirts and tie, all the other guys were regular Harrogate characters: Neil, Zoing, Dagger, etc, etc: an assorted mix of St. John’s, St. Aiden’s, Rossett and other secondary schools dotted around. I have simply forgotten so many names: I recall Andy Smith with an electric blue Renault 5 GT Raider, Mark Forester in a Citreon AX and Markus Fothergill working in the department store in Harrogate now known as Hooper’s. Hanging out on a Sunday at the cenotaph on Parliament street or in Valley Gardens with Caroline Wellburn and Fiona Debel. With Jason and Steven fighting to be in the front with Dan to play the tape from Tim of the night previous. Jared with his current car: a mini ROO or ALF the Triumph Acclaim. Richard in the grey Fiesta 750. Simon’s brown Honda civic, and Johnny Gaddins legendary FSO super-styled Red Riot. A brick built for speed if propelled off a east coast cliff. And me buying every Armand Basi I could afford and chucking acid down my neck for a really really good time. Acid and a little poppers, but Jason was the anti-Christ. With Nude Photo, smoke, acid and poppers I lost all sense of what space in time I inhabited with Alan Jiggins on the dance floor. Just fucking so many people on acid; everyone of the 200 people on a Saturday night, or so it seemed. Not a drop of alcohol in sight: and Dan drove so he was clear. And usually somewhere to crash in Harrogate, or walk the long walk 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. Nobody drank: everyone did acid and drove tripping to where ever: Brimham Rocks, Knaresborough, Thuston Reservoir. Jared would drive anywhere for a couple of quid. We’d wait for the sun to come up. Or stand on street corners being tormented by Stephen Betts and reduced to a blubbering mess. Chris once said 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. Thorough fair British Knights, Troop and Travel Fox; always Stussy and Nike Jordans. To the last days of The Mix circa May 1991 and Chipie brand legends. MC Spider, Sasha, Digweed and Tim ‘utah’ Garbutt. Used to sell knock off watches £20 a pop that Chinese mouse. Purple oms, strawberries, green or purple dragons, super-smilies, test-tubes, homemade and ridiculously strong The Wall, microdots, windowpanes, be very careful with white lightenings, sold in sticks of Wrigley’s spearmint, oh yeah. There isn’t a more satisfying feeling than the first warm glow of acid before it take full control of all your aural, oral and visual controls and reduces you to gibberish in the corner for 6 hours and more.

Part 25 (caught by the fuzz)

It was 7:30 on a Tuesday morning in 1991 on that fateful day. I was dragged to Garforth to be questioned about the drug problems in Wetherby and specifically at the high school. I didn’t know this was ever going to happen, I feared another visit from the police was in the offing for an entirely different reason. Luckily my dad was out at work already and it was just my mum and I: my dad had a real temper. My mum didn’t know I’d ever done drugs and she was very disappointed and ashamed of me.
I was driven in a Vauxhall Cavalier to meet my destiny with fingering prints and mug shots to be questioned. I realize that someone at Wetherby high must’ve spoken to their parents about the burgeoning drug culture amongst the sixth form(mainly the upper sixth) and word maybe got to a the police to get along and speak to the culprits. To me being invited along for this interview was interesting and experimental: I didn’t let the weight of the event effect me perhaps as much as Id have liked with a bit more maturity. When they started recording interview, after I’d been in the cells for quite some time, it was like water breaking a dam: I could tell an adult why I took the drugs I did. My most naive confidence was a set of names and events: best friends and specific details that made taking acid so much fun. It’s best enjoyed in good positive company. I guess without wishing to bring a load of other people into the scene I inadvertently did. A who’s who of people I’d spent nights tripping were reeled off for the scribbling cop. I made up the persons’ we got the acid from, but didn’t shy away from a list of takers that maybe gave those policemen a lot of help with their investigations? I know this was a real mistake now, but I thought it was fun explaining the great times taken with LSD. I am truthfully ashamed and sorry to have caused the ripple that went through Wetherby all those years ago. It was shear stupidity to think ‘our’ talk would be taken the honest way it was.

Part 26

When you get me within 2 meters of Facebook and I’ve had too much to drink I don’t know whether I can be held entirely responsible for the series of actions I put in place. The vile and pointless things I may write on chat or on a profile which, while profound to me in the inebriated state, are absolutely disjointed and fragments of a booze troubled mind. 2 such discussions took place yesterday evening. Both pitifully rude and intrusive; plain daft.

The detritus of ‘Metro’, ‘Shortlist’ and ‘Stylist’ that follows me on my journey. Waste paper, discarded drinks cans, cola bottles, graffiti on the windows and chairs and the dusty, muddy faded seats. The crummy x98 with it’s fading purple seats and glum faced brutes. Paping thin wasting away with cracked and yellowed teeth and salt and pepper hair.

I ate all the Ben and Jerry’s the night before last and chucked 3 lemon puffs down my neck last night. Fighting my girth again. With boredom comes tidy tidbits cleared away in gusto.

My left leg is aching today, from the top of my calf muscle: feels a little dehydrated maybe a result of those two beers at North?

‘How do I look?’ said the peroxide blonde fake tanned bint to the highlight haired no. 7 tanned blinged 40 something. She replied, ‘hideous my little drag queen.’ Follow us to the end of the world now, please?

Pret is very busy at 1:31 on a Friday. I’m sat on the furthest corner with legions of women and just a couple of hopeful men. The chatter of snaring sharpened teeth, symbols of blood torn lust. Vengeful and vicious, viscose and varigated. Sticking together in duels and triples and quartets. What is there to discuss? Why must you always gossip? Your beauty tainted in paper thin transparencies illuminated by the dirty filthy basis of your discussion.

Part 27 (futile)

Fat fuckers eating mr whippy with flake, octogenarian stumbling by guided by that ankled stamp. Pop goes the bubble of over chewing gum; like Lolita but not cute. At the transit of Albion Place and Land’s Lane. Some unauthorized hustlers is checked by community support officers. ‘who do you think you’re talking at?’ speaks mother into handset. And they with paper and plastic carriers rush like unwanted flyers blown or flotsam washed high on dirty sand. Up and down while the wind gathers the clouds to pour away the nothing. The man with temporary fancy blowing bird like forever. What an absolute waste: just let me slap yours empty hands!
If I could bulldoze all the shops, cafés, restaurants, office blocks, cinemas, petrol stations: what would we have left? Monuments, churches, schools, facilities and many bemused individuals.

Part 28 (beginning again)

Tidy up and serve food.
Fit to burst upon a plate
Messy basket and baguette
And an interlude I record
While consumptive old Rosie
Is, wrapped by benevolent booze,
Befriended once wouldn’t it be
Entente cordial and drink fearless
Into the daring poured afternoon.

Popped to the Nation of Shopkeepers for a couple of Weston’s Old Rosie and a chicken burger. Ran into Rachel who used to work in the Southwark Tavern. Seen her in there before and thought I recognized her, but couldn’t remember where from. Nice juicy breast, lush mayo and twice fried fries. She recalled my name, but I just couldn’t get hers. It was 2009 when I left Rotherhithe for Shropshire. Batteries gone, returned to move my stuff back to 42. Feels refreshing. Emma and I loaded her car. Need to return for a couple of items on Tuesday. My self same room since 1989 is full to the brim. Lots of nights safe and sound.
Nice to listen to The Fall on my Musical Fidelity pre/power amp and Mordaunt-Short speakers Mr Mark E. Smith and fix a redbush tea on this settling Friday night.

The final Part ( for a while…)

Nothing fills a man when he’s hungry for love.

I still can’t stand the people who run bar thr3. If it wasn’t for Thatcher’s Katy, platinum blonde Lucy and a short list of options in Wetherby; I’d not even have my funeral there. The way Ron dresses down staff within hearing of the clientele. The music of choice is Rod Stewart singing covers, Barry Manilow somber sad ballads and Muzak on repeat skipping and stuttering on the multichanger.

Mum did damage her kneecap. Cracked, broken, busted, 6 weeks in a cast. Makes you wonder how many breaks we all have without investigating further? She’s now stuck. Unable to work the garden, walk the dog, do her little jobs, etc. She has to use a kermode and crawl up and down the stairs. I’m her gopher.

Saw the most one sided game Saturday. Man united out played and well beaten by skillful and creative Barcelona. Second half especially. 3 shots to 17. Nuff said. Relief. One less trophy for Alex Ferguson.

Little known fact. I’ve left the house to rain now the whole week: even if only slightly. Today is too much…plodding around the inngs with Snoops. Stop! I have my own personal cloud.

Somber music in bar thr3, saw Scott and Megan, +co., but music too dismal. Returned to New Inn.

1 pint, a packet of Quavers and back to read.

Quiet weekend, tomorrow is d day moving finally and sorting all the bills out.

I may just take a break from the blog, while I get on my next adventure. I think that I’m writing just for the sake of more postings

Every person in Wetherby discusses just three ‘very’ important things: the night before, the football and the weather. Cricket sometimes (sport in general). Desperate for regaling the crowd with sober recall of drunken spree the night before. And sport. Never ending judgements on footballers, teams, managers, etc. So what.
I am surrounded by bored individual with solitary braincells blowing in the breeze. If only I could just go and live a kind of truth the way I did in Croatia. Simple reality. Fact finding and soul cleansing.

WD maybe one of the shallow individuals I’ve ever met. I thought him alright until I saw his onemanship and his need to be the inner circle. Limited to flapping his wings against the window unable to move into his own light. He hopes to gather some spark to manifest a shine. I think he’s one of those kids who play up to bullies and become the right hand man. Just pander and dance.

9:38 99bus is the one containing all the OAPs. DG is on here looking fringe worthy.

Clothing hanging, arches making next to keystones and Yorkshire grit. Appended to house like folly building and face shaping. The sun mixing left with part clouds; driving into a bank on Wetherby Road, Scarcroft.

Those old men playing chess under in the shade of rowan trees in Split harbor and the young girl having a siesta in the afternoon sun on the bench next door: that is peace.

Coffee, Coffee and bakewell tart
A room flutters with chattering gnashers. Still 90% female. Occasionally single but most often paired. Discussions of method and protraction in temporary clasp. Between men and football and women and gossip I could never hear that crescendo again. Last night I heard a buzzing all night, couldn’t locate it at 1am. I wonder where that new sound came from?

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s