Saturday, 23 November 2019

Wrong about the muse. Dora Maar.

A couple of nights ago, having dinner with an artist friend, we got to talk about the muse. I made a couple of crass statements about the gender of the muse based on my automatic assumptions as a male of the species.

Had my friend been less polite she would have pointed out that I was talking utter bollocks. As it was she left me to realise, as  later, I thought about that evening, that I was as far from right as is possible.

I've often written about the muse but to date always with the assumption that the muse was female. I guess I can try to justify that by saying that I am a man and like most men am driven by women and assume that only a woman could assume the role of the muse. Also there is the homophobic thing.

Often the muse turns out to be the more talented one who has been bullied.

There is an exhibition of work by Dora Maar (Picasso's muse) at Tate Modern. I sense that she will convince me of that. I'll go and see then report back.

The cooker hood as muse.

After a pint at the Cow
and a pleasant unexpected meeting
I took my self home
to lay out some rugs
lent by a friend and
to concentrate a chicken stock

The extractor fan on the hood
was not working
I took apart the cooker hood
grease greeted me like an unwelcome friend asking for money

I removed the filter
remeniscent of the airfilter
on the Lancia Fulvia rally sprint
That I bought in the 80's

I remembered how good
the front wheel drive
worked so well
in the snow and ice
in north oxfordshire
and I remembered Julia
who sat beside me then
and Victoria who in her first year
lay in the carrycot on the back seat

I remembered how well I loved
back then before it fell apart
and we all moved on.

It took a cooker hood
to remind me
to cherish memories
and not dwell on bitterness.

Monday, 18 November 2019

I stopped Prince Andrew from shagging.

At last I can tell my Prince Andrew story:

 When he was at Dartmouth Naval College his tutors would scour the town for 'pretty girls' to have dinner ( a euphomism for shag) with him (yeah pimping). My girlfriend (soon to be my wife, dont ask) was chosen for one such night. He played 'this little piggy' with feet under the table with another of the girls present and chose to come back to our place afterwards no doubt in the hope of an easy conquest. I was at home getting verry drunk with a friend just back from a stint on a North sea oil rig armed with much whiskey. Andrews security guys came into the house to check it out, took one look at us and decided that the prince was not getting laid that night.

On other occasions Andrew's goon squad would clear out local pubs in order that the Prince could have an undisturbed drink with his midshipman mates. Girls were never asked to leave.

He was not liked in Dartmouth.

Tuesday, 12 November 2019

Iceland's banned Christmas ad.

I'm informed that the following ad has been banned for being too political. 

The advertising clearance body, Clearcast, who screen broadcast adverts, deemed that the film breaks rules banning political advertising laid down by the 2003 Communications Act.

Iceland's founder Malcolm Walker said: "This was a film that Greenpeace made with a voice over by Emma Thompson.
"We got permission to use it and take off the Greenpeace logo and use it as the Iceland Christmas ad. It would have blown the John Lewis ad out of the window. It was so emotional."
The watchdog said in a statement: "Clearcast and the broadcasters have to date been unable to clear this Iceland ad because we concerned that it doesn’t comply with the political rules of the BCAP code.
"The creative submitted to us is linked to another organisation who have not yet been able to demonstrate compliance in this area."
More than 890,000 people have since signed a petition calling for the advert to be shown on TV.

The destruction of the rain forests is not a political issue, it is far bigger than that. I am astonished that this should be banned: 

Monday, 11 November 2019

Austerity at work.

The new bird feeder is working a treat.

I managed to lure three of these suckers on to the balcony today. I think they are albatrosses of some sort.

I decided to make good use of this windfall.

The breasts are going into a terrine, along with some minced pork, anchovies, nutmeg, port and pepper. The legs make an excellent stock when combined with onions, field mushrooms and port, the corn in the gullets I shall dry and grind into flour with which to make artisanal  bread to sell to the hipsters and foodies.

The terrine is in the oven now as I write this.

As I await the outcome I plan dishes made from parakeets and finches and celebrate austerity.

Fuck off Boris.


And you thought this was fake news.

Johnathan Swift and I will be tucking into this, with a healthy dollop of piccalilli and a pint of bitter, once it has cooled.