Sunday, August 30, 2009
Reminds me of the time I hung out Fritz and talked about the Cow. I seem to remember telling him about the goat.
Fritz took notes.
Bizarrely a horse looked into the bar.
Hein; a big man, Travelled through the traffic of Notting Hill on a skateboard... He had the right; a native of Venice Beach California and a veteran of those gnarly breaks.
he sailed serenely over the horizon of Westbourne park road like nothing more than a clipper under full sail. his outrider was a German Shepherd.
Hein never had to put his foot down to push... He always brought his own hill.
A few years ago he had one of those momentous parties that are still talked about in the Cow, especially at Carnival. but, like the sixties, If you were there all you can remember is that it happened. I ran out of memory cells on the Sunday afternoon, the rest is a shadow at best.
Hein also was the man who gave me my first gold disc; it hangs on my bathroom wall, something I had always wanted... I had been round at his house with people and some beer or wine and needed to use the loo. there on the wall was a gold disk. It shone.
I told Hein that I had always wanted one of those in my bathroom.
He went to a cupboard in another room then handed me a gold disc for the first Stray Cats album. I could have wept.
A big man; Hein.
Then inevitably there it is, rising over my aural horizon; the first whistle of Carnival.
It is followed of course by others, then hooters, then the first drum beats slip into my consciousness. It is as if Ghengis Kahn, Attilla the Hun, Vlad thhe impaler and Stalin have massed their collective hordes and are marching on my place. WHY PICK ON ME?
I have a choice... Get out there and party like its the end of the world or remain holed up above it like a first world war balloon observer at Ypres.
Friends phone me for battle reports.
I tell them that I love the smell of Napalm in the morning.
Friday, August 28, 2009
The atmosphere is already palpable.
The only thing for me to do, once I have decided I am staying for it, is to decide which parties to attend.
Notting Hill this weekend is either the best place in the world or the worst.
Babs would love it.
This was drummed into me yesterday as I multi-tasked my way down Westbourne Park road, the wind was strong, gusty, gutsy and fickle; of course reminding me of the nurse. I realised that the wind is no friend to the cyclist.
I mentioned this to a friend who said that there were cycling courses available. I should go on one she said.
I said that I was an autodidact and autodidacts don't do lessons.
she said I have a lot to learn.
That is the only thing I'm on this planet for. I said.
Which planet I'm on is a mystery to me.
Sunday, August 23, 2009
we spent hours discussing feet (a subject close to my heart) at some point in order to illustrate another point she removed her boots and socks, leaving them lying on the flagstones.
A sudden breeze caught her socks and sent them skittering away like nothing more than knitted tumbleweed.
A french lawyer let down her hair at a nearby table shook her head and then dazzled the sun.
Frieda then informed me that she was in fact a multi-millionairess with houses around the world and an island in the Seychelles.
'Why say you are a pediatrist'.I ask.
'I just love feet Jannie'. She replies.
Saturday, August 22, 2009
I had rather more to do with the Event at Cafe Ravenous than I let on. I was in fact the producer and promoter of the thing, this I had done in order to give Tristan the opportunity to have his night of Glory (if you can call it that) and to create a little buzz of excitement in a stagnating Portobello.
Murray, Noel and Sam were the real stars along with Ali and Charlie from Ravenous. All of whom (and many others) ensured that Tristan had the night of his life.
It will be interesting to see where he goes with this.
Rusty called yesterday to tell me that my passport had mysteriously been found under the nurses bed.
'What the hell were you doing under her bed?' I asked as the penny slowly dropped.
'I was looking for an escape hatch'. He replied.
'The only way you'll escape that woman Rusty is in a coffin'.
Tuesday, August 18, 2009
Grey and moody sky
Under a grey and moody sky I cycled, full of brio yet unsteadily fast, homeward. While distracted by thoughts of Lula-mae, marooned in Limbo Nebraska (pop 47) a bollard leapt into my path.
The bollard won.
Days later I noted that the bruise resembled uncannily that grey and moody sky.
Monday, August 17, 2009
Sunday, August 16, 2009
Saturday, August 15, 2009
Friday, August 14, 2009
I shall be going along to check it out.
Doors open at 7 apparently and the shit hits the fan at 8.
THE SHIT HAS TOLD THE FAN NOT TO COME.
Wednesday, August 12, 2009
I finally lost my cool when the studio started re-writing the dialogue; the final straw was when they objected to: 'Frankly my dear I don't give a flying fuck.'
I removed myself from the credits there and then.
Monday, August 10, 2009
It was performed in the dirt yard (no one in their right mind could call it a garden) of a Pimlico squat.
The performance was billed to start at 8.00 prompt. We sat uncomfortably drinking cheap box wine from styrofoam cups (oh how eco friendly these grubby inheritors of the world are) and waited; at first giggling at the circus unfolding and the couples trying to stick tongues down others throats (I can only assume there were tasty morsels down there, yum yum), then with impatience and finally no patience we left.
I cannot review the performance... It didn't happen. I can only cringe at the memory of the scuzziest place I've ever been. My intrepid assistant(with the courage of a young Martha Gelhorn) entered the lavatory in order to photograph it.
Photo. Daisy Caren Vispi
The guide to the British Museum on the lavatory floor disabused me of the notion that there was no culture here... Sadly they were wiping their arses on it.
Saturday, August 8, 2009
There is no 56th street in St Paul.
F. Scott Fitzgerald wrote 'This side of paradise' sitting in a house on Grand Avenue; Babs tells me that as well.
Babs teaches me a lot.
Tuesday, August 4, 2009
Sunday, August 2, 2009
When you arrive at the club you are greeted by the doorman who says: 'I cannot talk now but if you go into the waiting room , have a drink and a dance, chill for a while.
I will spare you a minute when you leave'.