Thursday, 28 February 2013

Sea horse found in Iceland fish burgers!

Oi vey!

Scientists have discovered traces of sea horse in Icelandic fish products including burgers, steaks and fingers.

Wednesday, 13 February 2013

Morgan Le Faythful, Marianne and memories.

Back in the 60's this is the kind of thing I spent my pocket money on. It was commissioned by the Sunday Times from Peter Blake and it is of course Marianne Faithful. I sent off my postal order for 2 shillings and sixpence  and from then on this poster hung above my bed.

Saturday, 9 February 2013

Jake Emlyn. NEW DAY.

I met Jake a couple of years ago, he did a show at the Tabernacle.

It is good to see someone move on in such an original way.

He will be big!

Boiling Water.

I walked away from it and headed north.

Towards evening on the second day the snow came, 
two hours later I was seeking shelter. 
Without snowshoes my progress was laboured and awkward.  
I came across a cave in a narrow ravine; 
a drift of smoke and footprints in the snow 
from someone coming from the north; 
small footprints, 
a woman or a child.

The cave was lit only by the fire 
enough for me to see the woman, 
dressed in grey, 
sheen of her hair like a well oiled gun, 
a woman from an unknown tribe, 

heating water. 

The makings of some ritual tea ceremony 
laid out on a rock.

Startled but unafraid she silently watched 
I found myself a place to rest opposite her, 
the fire between us. 
In perfect English she said: 
'We will wait for the water to boil. I will make tea'.
A shoulder gesture indicated the paraphernalia on the rock beside her. 
'Then you must leave'.

We sat in silence but for the fire 
as something foreign to us both crept into the cave 
settled within us. 

As the water in the pot trembled close to boil 
she she added a ladlefull of ice cold snow-melt. 
We sat on in silence.

As the water in the pot trembled close to boil 
I took up the ladle and added snow-melt to the pot. 
we sat on in silence.

Into the early hours we sat watching that pot never boil. 
Finally, having covered me in a blanket, 
she lay nearby. 
We slept.

I awoke to find her making coffee. 
We talked; 
each to the other brought magic.

On the second morning we departed, 
heading South.

In the cave on the fire rested the pot of water. 

Singing as it boiled.

Thursday, 7 February 2013

Dead Tutus.

As the ballerina grows she sheds her tutu to grow anew
and as she ages the tutu changes colour
from the gaudy candy floss pink of youth
to the white of her prime.

Quite often these discarded tutus
can be found at night
in the lanes and alleys of Covent Garden
especially after an arduous Swan Lake!


Tuesday, 5 February 2013

SPIT or the American dream.


Molly and John had been childhood sweethearts
Shared sodas at picnics

in the meadow by the Big Loving
as it snaked easily through the county.
Shared illicit beers beneath the bleachers

when she cut cheerleading and he cut track.
Shared moonlit skinny dips in the same old Big Loving

at the sand bar on the bend
where the turtles basked back in the day.
She had run naked laughing through poison ivy;

he had spat in his hand and rubbed it in the itching places.
Later she did not need the ivy to make the itch,
she had an itch of her own 
and he rubbed his spit onto that itch 
but that itch never completely went away.

Molly took that itch to New York.
John took his spit to LA.
Molly found music in the cafes at night, 

revolution in the air. 
‘New York City, imagine that’. 
She wrote him - as she itched at a sidewalk cafĂ© 
– in an early westbound letter.
‘Yes I can imagine that’. 

He had replied. 
But he couldn’t.
So she itched in the city 

closed her eyes to the viscous string of men 
while he spat on the coast at a succession of starlets 
who practiced the Stanislavski itch  
tunelessly singing the Hollywood orgasm.

Fast forward… 

The two of them came together again, 
out of boredom most likely. 
Boredom and guilt, 
prompted on her part by the metronomic click of the clock, 
on his part by the young guns on the boulevard 
the fear that he was all spat out.
When they married the orange blossom was already dead. 

The children when they arrived 
trod the rotting petals into the floorboards 
of their Chicago brownstone.

He made money; she spent it. 
The American dream.

Molly sat on her itch for twenty years, 

took a course in etching early on 
never looked back and couldn’t look forward. 
Her life etched itself into her face. 
She got a part time job 
filling condom machines at railway stations.
Twenty years of itching and etching on molly’s part 

as she watched john occasionally drool diddle his secretary 
(did he buy his condoms at the station?) 
was enough.
Molly came to Spain 

change of life, 
change of continent, 
change of tense. 
for a week.
John had grudgingly agreed that she could take a vacation, 

a break from the shattered life they now shared. 
She would visit a friend in Toledo  
maybe take in an El Greco or two.
On her last day of work prior to traveling 
the itch had slipped a dozen condoms into her purse  
then dragged her into Victoria’s Secret on the way home.
The flight was uneventful; 

she sat between the two overweight boors 
each airline is obliged to provide. 

Marta met her at the airport.  
The Spanish air crackled.
The bullfight was - to Marta - an odd choice 

for an afternoon’s entertainment 
but Molly had read Hemingway,  
wanted to sit ringside  
black beret scarlet lipped 
as Eva Gardner had once done. 
She had little experience of bloodshed save her own; 
but blood in the afternoon held no fear.

Manolo arched his back,

flicked a disdainful cape 
at the snorting bull  
an ubiquitous sneer at the crowd,
stood in his black slippers
stained with blood and dust 
hawked a glistening gob of spit 
that sizzled as it hit the sun scorched clay. 
The bull died bravely as bulls in such tales do. 
The spit dried to a disc of mother of pearl 
that shimmered against the blood red earth 
as the bulls ear parted unhearing from the head; 
arcing it’s way into the stands, 
into the lap of Molly. 
An unrecognizable Molly. 
Molly lost, Molly found. Molly free, Molly bound.


She whispered much later 
when the sun had gone down 
and the fiesta had dissolved itself 
into the barrios and tourist hotels. 

I took up the dog eared copy of THE TIN DRUM. 

It fell open at the chapter titled ‘fizz powder’  
I read to her again of little Oskar 
spitting into the navel of Maria.
Molly flew to Boston four days later  

made her morning connection to Chicago good time.
The fire-fighter moved dazed 

through the rubble of what had once been the World Trade Centre. 
The dust was thick and acrid  
he wished he had some kind of mask or respirator. 
He hawked and spat into the debris at his feet, 
onto a small black slipper. 
A slipper stained with blood, dust and tears.


Harp in Westminster synagogue

Friday, 1 February 2013

April Casburn or the convicted copper and the dodgy adoption.

April Casburn is the Met DCI who tipped off the News of the World about the phone hacking investigation.  She was convicted and sentenced this week. Her sentence which should have been three years was shortened to 15 months because she was adopting a baby.

Hang on!  The woman is 53 years old. No one can adopt in this country at that age which implies that she has sourced the child elsewhere (the Ukraine is the destination of choice for this sort of thing these days).  So why suddenly, when she must have known that a prison sentence was looming, does she toddle off abroad to adopt?

I guess she knew she would get a lighter sentence.

What amazes me is that the scam fooled the judge.