Liverpool The shadow

In pre Clean Air Act Liverpool when smoking tobacco was still considered beneficial to babies and an organic aid to expectoration there was a city ordinance whereby if a citizen was found to be unable to produce phlegm of a suitable consistency within a certain period of time when stopped by the police they were fined on the spot or transported to a part of the city - the Dingle - a place more fogbound nasal and consumptive than anywhere else - for correction. A bit like George Orwell spending time in the Hebrides (annual rainfall 30 feet) to help his TB (it worked,the TB thrived). That’s why lard is so popular in Liverpool – to produce the true guttural hacking deliquescent speech of the scouser you need lots of lard. Its part of our jealously guarded culture and enforced with vigour.

In the same landscape, the officially approved king james authorised emotional vocabulary (local edition)seems to lend a preference to envy self-pity sentimental incontinence and an abiding sense of injustice and resentment as the most socially acceptable forms of expression -

At least, thats the stereotype; and, yes, there are elements of it I recognise in myself. But consider the landscape that produced us. I was born in Smith Street, Kirkdale, an area that at one time had the unenviable distinction of being the poorest and most densely populated area in Europe with the worst figures for infant mortality and life expectancy. Yet wealth flowed in an unending torrent through the cobbled streets via cotton and hides and bananas and livestock and rubber and anything else that could be bought begged stolen or threatened out of the colonies and commonwealth on carts and steam lorries (still working in smith street in 1954/55 - I saw them). Great fortunes were made. But the people who moved all this stuff, crewed the boats, worked the docks, drove the carts... and on - got nothing. Fuck all; poor schooling, poor health services, battened on by the church, treated like scum and refused entrance to much of the city.

Resentments arise when one is unable to express one's feelings adequately at the time. Usually because its not safe to do so. Peasants refrained from publicly criticising Stalin in his heyday not because they were repressed but because they were sane - thus with us. The suppressed affect festers inside. We don't lash out? We lash in. Get sick, despise ourselves and those closest to us, blame everybody and go numb. The oppression becomes internalised. Becomes shame, poor self worth underpinned by a uriah heap sensibility whereby we become so estranged from ourselves we don't even know who we are anymore. And so, become our own gaolers, we pass it on and on and on and the pain becomes so great we numb it with whatever we can get hold of - drink, drugs, violence, depression.

Well, that time has past. Time to speak is now, and that shame, our own private doorman that barred us entry from the world, is redundant. Speaking for myself,I commit here and now to my family, my wife and sons, my friends, I am never going to be shamed into silence again. I learnt long ago that if you're drowning in steerage its very difficult to listen without prejudice to the tales of selflessness of the passengers in first class. If I haven't been heard how can I truly listen to anyone else? - but more of this later.

He thinks he's henched but he's just fat

So what?
Well, it bothers me that other people might think the same.
And when I said to him, He said, "I'm stronger than you". Just that.
And he believes it!
But listen, right, when he lifts, yeah? he arches his back,and that’s not proper. But no-one says anything to him, not even the gym orderlies.
So, why the-
This is what I'm trying to explain... When I went past his cell the other day I heard a noise and looked in and he was doing a warm up with bottles full of water and I said you’re supposed to do that down the gym and he wasn’t even doing it properly and he ignored me... Then I realised he’s doing that so when he walks across the yard he looks bigger than me. Also, he wears a couple of pullovers and a t shirt to make himself look bigger, and -
So why d’you work out with him?
This is what i'm trying to explain...
END

Sixty six and counting

When I started this blog six months ago I had no way of knowing whether people visited it or not so slowly fell into the comforting delusion that it was as visible as the Great Wall of China from space or the front page of a newspaper on a newsvendor’s stand in Piccadilly, and that my observations were being discussed all over the world.

I worried (in a grandiose Mount Rushmore sort of way) about the impact of my words on the people out there, especially the autobiographical bits. how would the families of people I’d mentioned directly or alluded to or whose identities I’d left series of obscure clues to (who could easily be unmasked by a tenacious investigator with a solid grounding in classical and contemporary western culture especially as understood in the post-war period and… very little else to do) – how would they feel? An overwhelming sense of betrayal and exposure? Or perhaps not; perhaps a sense of vicarious fame, reflected glory if you will – perhaps a little gratified; flattered to be included in the pale of my glittering world (like that Noel Wilde or Evelyn Warhol).

I imagined them blushing like schoolgirls to find themselves so chosen – coyly re-reading their names again and again for the first time in proper print (other than summonses, court cases or unpaid bills) rather than scrawled on walls alongside ill-spelt oaths like “fuck of” and the like. I blushed like a schoolgirl. My head spun. Much, I imagined, as Caligula’s must have done before his sanity gave up the battle and he declared himself a god.

I surrendered myself to the delicious sense of intoxication, like that first few seconds in the life of an intravenous injection of 120mg of pharmaceutical cocaine hydrochloride leavened with 60mg of diamorphine hydrochloride… Ah, those where the days, all fields and bombsites then, no bananas and a humane education system that gave grant after grant without any invasive or unseemly expectation of essays or indeed evidence of learning of anything at all (or crosschecks with the dole to see if you were still signing on) – a lost world based on trust, but I digress.

So, I surrendered myself to the all corrupting electricity of absolute power... for a moment. Then my Apollonian good side came sweeping in and in a flash I regained my emotional sobriety. What profound psychological impact was I having on these and others? How many lives would be altered irrevocably, families rent asunder? How many would suffer through my ill-considered opinions? How much damage had I done already? I realised immediately that in all conscience I could not continue. I decided to erase all trace of the blog and commit to good works for the rest of my life in order to undo at least a part of what I had done. Move house too, just to be on the safe side in case of repercussions from the deranged (from the evidence - a significant minority of those blessed with the mechanical aptitude necessary to use a mouse and draw curtains in daytime).

Then, at one minute to midnight on the big clock, I saw an advert for a free counter whereby I could record the number of hits on my site. Despite the enormity of the emotional shock of seeing firsthand the true Macluhan extent of my parish I realised it had to be done to ensure the exorcism of any last vestige of denial I may try to use to cloak my activities and continue them. I installed the counter. Three days later it read 0001. a week later 0004. Two weeks later 0006.

At this point I realised I had nothing whatsoever to worry about and decided to continue in the same familiar obscurity in which I’d conducted the rest of my life. I realised with a mixture of sadness and liberation the obvious truth that I could talk about anything - the size of my knob in relation to weather conditions - atmospheric pressure and so forth, for example - for the rest of eternity and it wouldn’t matter‘cause nobody's listening. They're all too busy talking too. Like me.

My only remaining disquiet… resentment if you will, is this. At last count I’ve had 66 hits but I’ve sent 70 e-mails ordering friends, family members, casual acquaintances, people I have incriminating evidence on etc… to hit the site. So which four miserable bastards can’t even get it together, are so ungenerous, so selfish, so locked in their own narcissistic hell that they can’t even get it together to hit the link on the e mail I sent them? Can’t even humour me? I was quite specific in my requirements. They didn’t have to read it (I doubt if I’d read it if I hadn’t written it) just hit the link. The only consolation? You can’t see the great wall from space either.

The golden Couple

(after a tabloid claim of brad’s addiction to phone sex being the last straw for the marriage)

Brad left the awards ceremony arm in arm with Jennifer. The crowd gasped in delight, envy and shameless adoration as at denizens of another world. So feted, the most beautiful glittering couple in all of Christendom returned by rolls Royce to their fairy tale mansion set in a fold in a secluded canyon looking out over the full moon lit ocean toward the west through pristine air spun from the poles and transported south by the obedient trade winds then warmed and dried over the desert and sent gently bathing the little valley like an invisible stream of orgone goodness healing and cleansing all within. Once the choreographed sequence of gates and doors – humming in sympathy with the car and the spinning earth – once the final door had closed in the wake of these two Olympians they moved apart and after a brief curt exchange with their butler re tomorrows arrangements went separately to opposite wings of the mansion. She reached her suite and wearily discarded £3000 of clothes on the bedroom floor and vanished into the steam of the bathroom with an expression of absolute despair on her face pausing only briefly at her dressing table to extricate two prescribed tablets to ensure oblivion as painlessly and as rapidly as possible. Meanwhile up in the turret of the west wing brad sits huddled on the bed telephone receiver clenched to his ear his pants unbuttoned and his right hand desultorily moving up and down the shaft of his half erect penis. "Oh you dirty bastard" says the middle-aged woman on the other end of the phone in a nasal shopping mall whine shriek, "fuck me with your big cock" as she knits and leafs through a showbiz magazine occasionally drifting off into resentful phantasies of the inhabitants thereof - brad Pitt for example - who indeed she is looking at as she remembers with a twinge of irritation and self-pity the fucking john on the phone some ugly little pervert no doubt who’s only chance of getting near a woman was this 50 cent a minute call – "fucking jerk off" she muttered. "yes that’s right!" said brad, avidly listening up in his eyrie, cock beginning to really stiffen at last, "I’m a fucking jerk off". "Jesus" said the woman. Meanwhile 100 yards away Jennifer finished rubbing herself with her shampoo slick fingers as a climax round about 1.5 on the Richter scale wrought a barely audible hiss from her lips and she flopped still damp into the pristine bed after struggling to negotiate the linen frippery that wisteria’d all over the 4 poster. The pills were kicking in and she felt dizzy sick and blurred - clumsy, mind and body. Fuckim she thought as she spun into the abyss for precisely 3.5 hours. Fuck him.
END

Clockwork Rainbow

George reached for the knife and slid through the crowd towards his old foe the circling limousines receded into a diamond silver background blur of light as he focused in on the red carpet immediately before the unostentatious sober green people carrier that easily exuded quiet wealth and power without fanfare casting a reverse Midas spell over the gathering of pretenders and charlatans revealing their rusting bling tawdriness as it drew smoothly to a halt with a discreet whispered hum. As the door was opened by the subdued hand of a lackey in an admiral’s costume a diminutive figure emerged and stood to one side. George, who’d started his lunge halted in mid stride perplexed, then a bulky figure was etched out by the flashing lights as it rose from the dark interior of the car and George, made purposeful by grim recognition, stepped in close to strike his deadly blow and release the years of resentment and injustice in a bitter harvest of blood. Alerted by the first excited aborted lunge the brain of the diminutive figure to the side clicked into gear the broad mouth opened and ‘ bungle look out ‘ what’s up zippy? ‘You! He cried accusingly stumbling back from the flashing thrust of steel that parried off his thick bear coat and clinked ineffectually against the robust metal of the gaping door. Bastards cried George in his nasal hippopotamus whine murderer declared zippy ungrateful murderer zip it you grass George what’s come over you said the flustered bear in his disappointed way he’s jealous cried zippy nonce’s and grasses all cried George as he was twisted up by Diddy Coombs bodyguards I could have been a contender mean while his accomplice an unshaven and embittered Geoffrey unmasked by the partisan crowd was being manhandled before being roughly delivered in to the robust hands of the trio of towering constables remember us they said smirking not you not rod Jane and Freddy sergeant rod Jane and Freddy to you, you asbos recidivist said rod as he twisted Geoffrey’s skinny arm up his threadbare moth-eaten magpie rainbow jumper covered back that’s right said sergeant Jane resplendent in her tight black uniform as she kneed him hard in the groin you wont be needing these where your going who’s the boss now they cried as the bear danced forward and punched him hard in the face to the cheers of the crowd. Sorry Geoffrey cried the crestfallen failed hippopotamus oh shut up said Geoffrey you useless cunt yes shut up yelled zippy in delight as he drove his zip studded metal face into the pink hippo’s glum visage. As the two hapless assassins were loaded into a black Maria and driven away in disgrace pursued by the jeering crowd the five comrades embraced each other warmly united for the first time after all these years as the stalwart rod hugged her his hand slid up her regulation black coppers skirt and her thighs parted automatically unbalanced she fell back into the coarse haired arms of the bear and was rewarded with the exciting pressure of his hard bear meat throbbing between her firm buttocks the chafing rasp of Zippy's metal teeth on her erect nipple through her bra and blouse wrought a groan of pleasure from Jane’s lips. Right yelled Freddy his half mast trousers rendered even more ridiculous by his full mast erection “back to the old house everybody.”

The new residents, the Teletubbies, didn’t stand a chance against the platform boots claws and zips of the pherenomed five. And were quickly driven out. “Leave 'em rod they’ve had enough” laughed Freddie. the sexually enraged Manson looking children’s entertainer reluctantly left off chasing kicking and booting the hysterical man babies with a look of profound disappointment on his face “we’ve better things to do” “yes Freddy as always you’re right” he replied. As Jane beckoned from the porthole window the ominous visage of the bear briefly discerned in the gloom behind her as his great paw covered her naked breast. Together, in a moving display of enduring friendship and togetherness, the strange alliance of humans and puppets begin to sing:

All around the streets and houses
Everybody likes to share
Man and woman kind of Martian
Even friendly mister bear

All across the streets and houses
Rainbow news spreads everywhere
George and Geoffrey in the slammer
Muttering that bears don’t care

END

The Discreet Charm of the Bourgeoisie

Last night at the ballet he watched the lights go down and was astonished as Prokofiev's gentle music began to usher in the realm of faery how bravely the audience resisted the spell with all the means at their disposal. Such coughings and clearings such penetrating rustlings of plastic crisp bags heroically smuggled in kept us all safely earthbound for much of the performance. Curiously he noticed in the interval among the gentle wash and murmur of conversation there was not a cough to be heard. It all began when the lights went down. He pondered on this curious and immutable fact – felt he was seeing only a part of something that stretched off in every direction like the great wall of china; close up just bricks and mortar, stand back and see and the world condenses anew in moving from a single dimensioned Mercator projection cul de sac to a multi-coloured infinite landscape of life that triggers everything floods brain body and soul with love endorphins chemicals what you will.

Some months previously he had stood in the arena at the Albert hall as Simon rattle conducted Rheingold on authentic instruments and there if anyone even looked askance they were subjected to a stony basilisk medusa stare from a gaunt bearded giant in the centre of the arena who scanned the crowd ceaselessly his ears attuned like Roderick Usher’s to the finest dog whistle sounds as they emerged from the infra red. This guy seemed possessed of a Dune pre-cog spice-like sensitivity and kept his lonely vigil to the clandestine approval of everyone. I watched a man in front of me clearly dehydrated dying of thirst trying vainly to extricate a bottle of Evian from an unwisely chosen acoustically challenged carrier bag for the entire performance without success. Even as he thought it the gaze was upon him. (No interval, this is Wagner). Again, at Rattle’s rendition of Beethoven’s ninth, Albert Hall packed to the rafters awash with anticipation and excitement and except for the mobile phone going off as Rattle approached the podium ... which brought such a wave of derision and audible contempt from the surrounding seats that it simply emphasised the ensuing absolute Kelvin cessation of all molecular motion silence that followed. Ditto Rheingold at the royal opera house two weeks ago.

Compare this to the ballet. Last night the back of the orchestra stalls sounded like a ward for advanced consumptives. So, what’s the difference, acknowledging the rather uncertain territory of ideological spectrum covered from Wagner 19century to 20th century Prokofiev and Frederick Ashton as irrelevant? Discounting the gravity of the themes locations and a possible humourlessness comparatively that may inhabit us Wagnerians in that particular mode or incarnation ( I wonder who’d win in a fight between Wagner and Frederick Ashton, discounting Prokofiev of course - a dangerous opponent, his parents took him to see Faust when he was three and this ‘inspired him’. Freddie would clearly win and be appalled by that fact, his balletic grace and height giving him a formidable advantage over the gnome like ‘master’ whose occupation sedentary to Ashton’s leaping.

Anyway, obviously, last night Cinderella; kids, the place was full of them in their best frocks looking marvellous I have to say but coughing like troopers. The season inclement winter a liquid end to the year the last week’s diet rich in dairy products and all the necessary ingredients in surfeit for the production of phlegm. Their coughing only alleviated by the occasional scream or whoop of unselfconscious glee joy whatever. One by me had clearly been carried there from her sickbed and produced a continuum of plaintive wheezings and whistles – like she’d just been deposited in the stalls by a huge wave (ed. Steady on). Strangely and rightly they didn’t bother me. It was the adults that were the problem, almost predominantly men who hacked and puffed and huffed and boomed especially at the most sensitive parts and there to my way of thinking is the clue. It wasn’t about physical affliction but feelings and emotional discomfort and embarrassment the refuge and defence from emotion that any therapist would recognise immediately … and my preoccupation with it you ask? That too! My defence against surrender is to police these other bastards who aren’t doing it right. So to all the men (they know who they are) a simple request: get real or stay home i.e. paradoxically, suspend your disbelief or be honest and stay away. The theatre is not a one way entertainment it’s a dialogue - even if our part is to be silent it’s the quality of that silence, that surrender – that’s when the magic happens. You have to be prepared to participate as the children clearly were if not, fuck off Father!I mean ...now we're getting somewhere - but I - Sorry, time's up; right, see you next Wednesday.
END

Tupac Lives

So, the old man paused as the young man he’d christened Kevin Blood late of Wessex now HMYOI Aylesbury because of a strange alchemical marriage within him of Compton and the Archers approached him across the prison yard and said earnestly “Nick, I have further evidence of Tupac Shakur’s continuance on this unhappy planet. Last night on Eminem's tribute it was called ‘posthumous’. Now if he really was dead why would they call it posthumous? Kevin, do you know what posthumous means? Yeah sure it means good, like - like humongous or something, by the way, man that’s a posthumous good shirt you’re wearing.” “Ah, I see”.

I saw Cinderella last night. It was posthumous.

Response to "Things I hate about my flatmate" blog

As the years pass i look back fondly to an age of squats and strange habitats i have known - places where i roosted, dwelt, lurked, hid or hibernated (between giros and script days) rather than lived. Better called earths, dens, holts, forms, nests, lairs, burrows, castles(octopus), caves or hide-outs or simply "addresses" (if the sole purpose was to receive housing benefit or other assorted hand-outs)rather than homes. looking back through rose tinted spectacles to those halcyon days and the strange inhabitants thereof recalls the following -

A number of years ago i discovered my flatmate washing a colander he'd previously used to sieve turds and "clumps"out of the cat litter tray alongside the cutlery and crockery from supper while simultaneously pissing in the sink down the gap at the side of the bowl (which,incidentally, was clothed in a dense patina of chipfat enhanced by the lukewarm water he insisted on using). When i gently drew his attention to the dubious hygiene of these practices while commending him for efficient multi-tasking he upbraided me for "shaming" him and called me a fascist. Eventually we parted ways after a dispute over communal methadone.In short,i got a script and he didn't and the resultant power difference led to incompatibility. Keep writing - its zeitgeist-tastic