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Showing posts from March, 2005

Porpoise, dear boy, porpoise

Hmm, funny how it comes back to you all of a sudden, isn't it? There you are, leading a relatively blameless, decidedly straightforward existence and then whammo, all it takes is one half baked simile creeping into your thoughts and suddenly it's delusions of grandeur time again, 1999 all over again; a triumph of hope over experience. Any road up, have some poems:

Architecture in small English towns

Best seen at up beyond window edge
pitch of roof, slide of slates
carvings with fleur-dy-lys
your back in the way,
spine like a rope.

Silent, these roofs
and sinful, there are murders behind them.
In a room an absence
there is weeping behind pebbledash.

A great sweep of crescent, tree lined and decent.
You played hopscotch, head
back over shoulder sunshine
such handsome, handsome houses,

Great sheets of glass a mile wide,
a building’s giant eye, keeping
watch on the chevrons of paving
pointing towards bargains bargains bargains.

Patchwork, this town, stitched together,
studded with angles, compressing…

Purpose, dear boy, purpose

Right, kick self up arse time. The more alert among you may note that Coastalblog now links to the AA Independent press guide (present on the website of writer and artist Dee Rimbaud), this link has been reciprocated.

Of course, the trouble with this is that Coastalblog has morphed slowly over the year it's been up and running into more of a rambling diary than anything to do with my writing, which was the original purpose of the whole thing.

So from her on out it's going to get a bit more "writery". Normal infrequent service will continue, but I'll endeavour to make it all a bit more relevant by throwing in the odd bit of new work, or thoughts on process. Your commments would be most welcome (plus it means I have now stated publically that I'm going to be upping the ante creatively, so I'd better bloody well get on and do it).

Frenzied ormskirk stapler attack

Another day another not getting killed by a hatchet wielding weirdo. Gotta love small market towns.

Hi, how are you all? Well I trust? Not decapitated? Jolly good.

So things at work lurch from bad to worse, connoisseurs of poisonous atmospheres would do well to apply to me for a job pronto. They can have mine, if they like. In fact it's all pretty meh at the moment professionally, thugh I do have a reading in support of one of my heroes Allen Fisher coming up in April. I'll read a limited vocab piece which is constructed from one of his and see if he spots it....

Thank God my personal life is stable and happy. Who'd have thought? It does allow one to approach pretty much everything with calm and equanimity. And now I'm going to go and approach my lunch with calm and equanimity. Peace out y'all.


Now I'm as much of a fan of fresh fish as the next man, given that, geographically speaking, the next man is very often Jim. I'm significantly more of a fan of fresh fish than most others. And yet I find myself shunning the food I love. Turning my nose up at it, opting instead for piscatory-free dinners. Chowing down merrily on everything but.

And why should this be? FUCKING MORRISONS, THAT'S WHY. Oh those fresh fish counters may look enticing, with their banks of crushed ice and multivarious breeds piled high, but I have a strong suspicion that no-one there has a clue what they're doing. The fish, on close inspection, is almost always three or four days old. They're actually proud to sell Skate and Cod "Caught wild in the North East Atlantic", even going so far as to make Cod their "Catch of the Day". It was a combination of the nautical tweeness of the tagline, and the wilful genocidal fucking irresponsibility of this which led to this post.


Electricity prevailing occasionally

Five things that are making me happy right now:

1) The battle of Dixon's shoulder. The unseemly wrangling surrounding whether or not Mrs Dixon has been knocked back for her operation seven times, and whether or not Dr John Reid should stand in her living room awkwardly holding a teacup for the camera whilst she glares at him and cameras flash; have served to remind me of what good, down and dirty fun a nasty election is. Bring it on.

2) Spurs's Shrekalike manager, Martin Jol's unflappable phlegm in the face of the camera, and his ability to talk entirely in wacky Dutchisms without actually saying anything "Of corsh in fudball thish ish important, no?" What is, Martin?

3) Since giving up weed I have a life back, why did no one tell me of this "outside"?

4) Richard Branson's face. I mean it's fucking marvellous. Look at that thing! Like a weird grinning bearded baby bouncing around some airstrip somewhere in deepest bible belt for no readily apparent …