my life as a artist
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in to lunch
Monday 23rd July 2007 1:01 AM
Even though yesterday was dark and cold, and the forty-fourth consecutive day of heavy rain, the effects of the gale force winds abating to force six gave me a bit of a spring in my step. I decided to invite a few people round for lunch. After a quick phone round, I managed to get Keith Richards, Amy Winehouse, Howard Marks and George Melly.
I made a leek and pasta bake, with steamed mange-tout from the garden, and Keith brought round a beetroot and avocado salad. Over a deliciously refreshing glass of Aqua Libra, courtesy of Amy, we discussed the disastrous effects of the weather on our general moods. The unreasonable, unseasonable, unceasing rain had dampened all our spirits, although Howard, who's Welsh, said he'd found a certain amount of comfort in it.
George, who'd come dressed as a Masai warrior, but with bigger earrings, suggested that we smoke cannabis. Although his usual charming and witty self, he didn't actually look that well, so when he said that it was a healing herb, and good for us, we weren't completely convinced.
'I tried it a couple of times at university' lied Howard 'but the stuff that's available on the streets now is said to be twenty times stronger than it was then'
'What if it leads on to heroin?' said Keith, his fork expertly finding and piercing the veined flesh of a steaming mange-tout from the garden. 'I'd never thought of that' said George, now suddenly unsure.
Amy, who was washing up and being surprisingly compliant, said in a husky voice, 'Why don't we listen to Question Time on Radio 4? With half the cabinet admitting to accidently smoking it twice at university, it's bound to be a topic!'
As the trusty Roberts crackled into life, we heard the firm, educated tones of Jonathon Bumblebee, introducing the panel to the Peterborough audience. We sat enthralled, and let the thrilling spume of live radio break in waves of love on the donkeyless beaches of our minds.
As Amy had predicted, the topic of marijuana arose. We listened agog as Peter Hitler, columnist for the Daily Mail, discussed skunk weed with Baroness Rabbi Julie Annoy-Burger, spokesperson for the liberal democrats. As a right-wing ex-Trotskyite, Peter Hitler believes, deeply and sincerely, in very strong opinions. He said that skunk weed was fantastic and should be compulsory for all schoolchildren, and that possession of ordinary cannabis should carry a death sentence.
Julie said that she thought skunk weed was unnatural. She said that the wisdom-imbued plant devas, normally associated with marijuana, were not present in skunk weed, due to the industrial methods of its propagation, and it was therefore dangerous. She said that although she didn't smoke now, when she was at university, she'd smoked a couple of really big bongs of Nepalese hash, and really enjoyed listening to Tubular Bells.
The discussion was full, frank and open, with the masterfully masterful Jonathon Bumblebee sensibly directing the fast flow of point and counter-thrust, and when it was over, we lay panting and spent.
Although it may sound uncharitable, we'd found it hard to warm to Peter Hitler, and because of that we were more swayed by Julie's arguments.
'What sort of cannabis have you got, George?' said Amy.
'It's not skunk weed' said George. 'Its just a bit of Moroccan hash'
'I think I'd like to try some,' said Keith bravely. 'Me too!' chimed in Amy. Me and Howard exchanged glances. 'I'll do it if you'll do it' he said to me in his soft welsh burr.
It would have been rude to refuse, so I told George that we'd be interested in trying it. As it turned out, we all found the marijuana quite agreeable, and as we sat and listened, entranced, to the dribbly strains of Tubular Bells, we quite forgot about the inclement weather and our summer disappointment.
Posted 1:01 AM | 7 Comments | Permalink
I just dont know
Thursday 19th July 2007 2:35 PM
'The world is not only stranger than we think, it's stranger than we can think.'
These wise words, although uttered by the disgraced football pundit, Ron Atkinson, whilst commenting on Carlton Palmer's inclusion in the 1992 England world cup squad, have a wider resonance outside the increasingly tawdry world of football.
Socrates, the sublime Greek philosopher and Brazilian mid-fielder, said that the only thing he knew for certain was that he didn't know anything. If only Vladimir Mugabe, George Putin and their like, could display such wise humility!
If I was to say that I thought Tony Mugabe was a bad-tempered know-all, and that Kim Jong Bush was a bit of a clever-arse, many of you would be justifiably shocked by my judgemental attitude. The fact is, I don't know any of these things for certain, I'm just guessing. The difference between me and those 'bad' people that I mentioned, is that I don't mind if you disagree with me.
Sometimes people leave comments on my blog, pointing out what they consider to be errors, and on only one occasion have I carpet-bombed their village. As they weep and wail in the pitiful, honey-stoned rubble of their self-incurred desolation, residents of the once beautiful village of Newton Kyme will now think twice before they question my memories of Stingray and Supercar.
Routine atrocities aside, I feel that many of these world leaders need to develop new hobbies and interests. Non-stop, ruthless power-mongering, to the exclusion of any other activity, can make one a very dull boy indeed. Imagine the effects on the slapped-arse face of President Putin, of a vigorous game of swing-ball, or three-and-in (samovars for goalposts). It would give hope to thousands, to see a rosy glow, red as a Grozny apple, suffusing the deathly sunken waste-land of his pinched and sallow cheeks.
Running around and letting off a bit of steam, while good for the cardio-vascular system and releasing endorphins, doesn't in itself address the chronic narrowness of vision that afflicts most tyrants, so pastimes that involve some sort of intellectual struggle are to be encouraged. President Bush, for instance, whose bullying stems from feelings of inadequacy and lack of self-worth, could benefit enormously from colouring in crosswords.
In a sick world, maimed by the crippling dogma of fundamentalism and Toyah Wilcox, it's time for all good people to stand up, and with one voice, shout, 'It's a mystery!'
After all, as Gary Lineker once said on Match of the Day, 'Our knowledge of the universe is equivalent to that of a dog in a library'
Posted 2:35 PM | 4 Comments | Permalink
knees up mother earth
Sunday 15th July 2007 11:30 PM
There was a time, when if somebody mentioned Madonna and Jordan, I would think of the mother of Jesus, and the river he was baptised in. Now, unfortunately and shamefully, I think instead of breasts, conical and large respectively. I'm hip and down with the kids enough to know that Madonna has had some sensational smash-hit, number-one pop singles in the chart parade, and that there's been a few films in what she has acted, but none of those achievements, to me, have been as striking or memorable as her funnily funnely, comical conical breasts.
Jordan's real name is Katie Price. I know this, because in my Mum's flat, under the glass top of the coffee-table, openly and unashamedly, for all to see, is a pile of old copies of Hello! magazine, donated by the fabulous Betty. This afternoon, while my Mum was making the coffee, I had a furtive flick through, and came across a sickeningly long article about Ms Price and her suckling, bicepped beau, Peter Andre. One particular photo, of a straight-backed Ms Price, atop the arm of a large sofa, looking meaningfully into the distance, put me in mind of Landseers 'Monarch of the Glen'.
I was rescued from Planet of the Idiots by my Mum, who returned with a cafetiere of in-date, fair-trade, organic coffee, ( Rufforth car-boot sale, 50p for 250 grams), and some of her fabulous, home-made, lemon and ginger biscuits. These deliciously scented, firm yet yielding, excitingly innovative but reassuringly traditional, subtly textured, crunchtastic, beige moons of loveliness are the pinnacle of the biscuit-makers art.
My mother is obviously a very talented woman, more so in my opinion, than either Madonna or Jordan. She's well dressed, her flat is tastefully furnished, and she has large breasts, yet not once has she featured in Hello! magazine. I think she needs to get a better agent.
Posted 11:30 PM | 3 Comments | Permalink
rain rain rain
Saturday 14th July 2007 7:11 PM
It rained, it has been raining, it rains, it's raining, it's going to rain, it will rain, it will have rained. It's making me quite tense. It's midway through July and there's no sign of summer yet. I feel as though I've been hustled by Spring. I met her on a street corner in April and she showed me some daffodils, so I gave her some money, but she kept the money and never came back. I expect she's spent it on one of those 18-30 holidays in Majorca.
Tomorrow I'm going to light the fire and have an indoor British summer holiday. I'll put my shorts on and dangle my feet in a washing-up bowl of cold, salted water and watch Mark's donkey through the caravan window. I'll eat potato pie and chips, with croquettes, mash and crisps, with a baked potato on the side, and feel care-free and gay, in the old fashioned way. Temporarily freed from the daily grind of crosswords and pottering, my soul will take wings and fly, and if Mrs Abercrombie calls to collect the rent, I might ask her if she's got time for a low-key, whirlwind holiday romance over a cup of stewed tea. When evening falls I'll watch telly and imagine it's the Blackpool hallucinations.
Five minutes ago it stopped raining! I opened the window and checked for tell-tale speckles in the tractor-rut pools, and they were like glass. It was unraining! The sodden field, previously sulking, blue-tinged and bruised in the fading light, looked surprised, breathed in, and smiled. 'Aha!' I thought to myself and any passing clairaudients, 'Turning point!'
'Turning Point' is the title of a book by Fritjof Capra, about new physics and God. It's also the title of the second chapter of Denis Law's autobiography, 'Give it to me and I'll kick a good goal' and, on top of that, it's the twenty-fourth hexagram of the I Ching, the mysterious and ancient Chinese oracle.
Four minutes ago, it started raining again , about forty seconds after I said the words, 'turning point', only this time much harder. Luckily, or because I did a good deed in an earlier life, or because I went to Aldi's yesterday, I've got half a punnet of delicious giant strawberries from Scotland, sitting on my table, inviting me to eat them. After living in strawberry fields, forever hearing stories of Wimbledon, they call to me in the only way they know how. 'C'mon Tim!'
Posted 7:11 PM | 3 Comments | Permalink
a spot of bother
Friday 13th July 2007 3:44 PM
Here are some reasons why, on Wednesday night, I didn't deliver a self-indulgent, bridge-burning diatribe against the BBC.
a) I've calmed down a bit. One of the old English bantams has been unusually affectionate towards me this last week, and for the first time in my life, I've begun to experience the redemptive power and healing grace that you can get from the love of a good chicken.
b) On the morning after my no-show on the radio, I woke up with a small spot in the middle of my chest, right above my heart chakra. Over the next two weeks the spot grew, until it became a livid red Glastonbury Tor, rising from the misty chest-hairs of my off-beige Avalon chest. I got Pat to dowse it, and she discovered that it was situated on the path of my body's most important ley-line, that runs from my penis, through my navel, nose and brow chakra, over my head and down my spine, and finishes at the label on the back of my Marks and Spencer's underpants. I call it the St. Michael line.
Last Wednesday night, as I was staring at a blank screen and a blinking cursor, ready to launch my blog of wrath, my eyes were magically drawn to my little Glastonbury Tor, nestling in the valley of my unbuttoned shirt. Wishing to trace the mystical contours of its subtle labyrinth, I went to touch it with my finger, and as I did so, the yellow St. Michaels tower on the top blew off, and there was a tor-flattening eruption of unspeakable white stuff. (Apologies to anyone currently eating a walnut whip)
Dear reader, that pus was my anger! Now that it wasn't inside me, all I had to do was wipe it off with a tissue, dab the wound with the tea-tree oil of forgiveness, and I'd be free from its destructive poison. So I did and I was.
c) The respectfully full and frank apology that I received from the BBC on Wednesday morning, while not being as overtly fulfilling as the love of a good chicken, or as prophetically symbolic as the bursting of a big spot, was nevertheless the main reason behind my change of heart.
So there you have it, my faithful blog-follower. There'll be no ugly outpourings of impotent rage going on in this blog, thank you very much. Neither will it continue to be written in the style of an e-novel, with pulsating narrative and unbearably tense cliff-hangers. Or will it? Don't miss next week's wordtastic blog, here, at rorymotion.com! ( Now with added ammonium lauryl sulphate, to bring out the Goddess in you!)
Posted 3:44 PM | 1 Comments | Permalink
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