my life as a artist
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Its looking dark over Bills mothers
Friday 9th March 2007 10:30 AM
Yesterday I recorded a commissioned song for a local BBC television programme called 'Inside Out'. They wanted a song about climate change in Yorkshire in a delta blues style. Taking a tip from Robert Johnson, I went down to the crossroads with a view to selling my soul to the devil in exchange for a fabulous blues guitar technique. I went to the bottom of Broadway where it crosses the Fulford road and waited for ages but unfortunately the devil didn't turn up. I suppose he must be very busy at the moment.
I woke up this morning, I went to check my ozone layer
Someone's been global warming, and my layer just wasn't there
Now the water level's been rising to a remarkable degree
And I still find it surprising to live in Osset-by-the-sea
(and the A1 is now the coast road that follows the fabulous beaches of
The Costa del Barnsley… Ah, Mexborough! It's so bracing!)
They say it's 'cos of crazy folk that live in Harrogate
They're flying green beans in from Africa straight to their dinner plate
When it comes to carbon footprints they're wearing size-twelve shoes
They're giving me those heavy Harrogate carbon footprint blues
And maybe one day Noah might make another ark
Those fancy folk from Harrogate will want somewhere to park
They'll be hoping Noah will tell them by the doors
To come in two by two in their four by fours
The place I used to live is full so I had to leave by boat
Even though it's name was Hull I'm afraid it didn't float
And down in Megawatt Valley they're spewing out CO2's
Giving me those heavy Harrogate carbon footprint blues
( Ferrybridge, Eggborough and Drax … sound a bit like evil school chums of Harry Potter)
Maybe one day I'll sail north to Easingwold sur Mer
Find a patch of dry land and build a windfarm there
Spend my days sowing breezes and planting out the gales
Maybe one day I'll reap a whirlwind, I'll sell farts if all else fails
We've got to change big time, or we'll find it hard to lose
Those heavy Harrogate size-twelve carbon footprint blues
Posted 10:30 AM | 0 Comments | Permalink
I hate being judged, especially by judges
Wednesday 7th March 2007 8:31 PM
I
A 68 year old woman from Northumberland received 250 hours community service today for growing cannabis for self-medication. She doesn't like smoking so she's been putting it in buns and casseroles. (Mmm, fun buns…. rock'n'roll casserole)… she says she's going to carry on doing it. I shall seek her vote when I stand at the next election for the 'Please Can I Grow Some Marijuana In My Garden' party.
Besides saying blahdy blahdy blah blah, the judge also warned that cannabis was a gateway drug. (You smoke it and then you have to go to the supermarket to buy carrot cake) . That worried me a bit… I've been smoking marijuana for thirty-five years now so l ought to be taking heroin quite soon. The fact is, it doesn't lead on to harder things (unless you count the floor), it leads on to softer things, like chocolate cake, poetry and cushions.
Marijuana and wine are two fine substances, best ingested separately. (Cor blimey!.. I well 'ad a whitey!) While wine tends to be ego-strengthening and marijuana ego-dissolving, both can be useful tools for social integration or solitary reflection. They can also be useful for getting ripped off ones face/skull/bollocks/rocker or tits. .
The social mores concerning wine and marijuana vary dramatically in different countries. In 1980 I visited a town called Rishikesh, in the foothills of the Himalayas on the banks of the River Ganges. Alcohol was considered illegal, while marijuana was considered sacred. For a practising catholic in Britain, marijuana is regarded as illegal while wine is considered sacred. Bloomin' morals!
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Im sure I've got more to say on all this but I've got to practice a song. It's about climate change in Yorkshire and its for a BBC north television programme called 'Inside Out'. It's a blues thing called ' I've got those heavy Harrogate carbon footprint blues'…. Hope I remember the words. It's quite common for marijuana smokers to leave sentences un
Posted 8:31 PM | 0 Comments | Permalink
balloons
Friday 2nd March 2007 2:32 PM
Many people (OK then, three) have asked me what ever happened to my burgeoning career as a balloon modeller. For a period of nine months in 2004 I received many prestigious engagements in the guise of Bertie Bubblesqueak, balloon modeller to the stars. I had been initiated into this esoteric art during my relationship with the very beautiful and mysterious children's entertainer, Beattie Bunnikins. Under the tagline ' I go squeak in the presence of Beattie' I blazed a trail of balloon modelling excellence through the salons of Paris and Vienna, my dexterity and audacious innovations drawing gasps of amazement from the august clientele.
Towards the end of this period my repertoire had expanded to the point where I was capable of doing dogs and swords and worms. In the dog section I had learnt to do twenty four different types of terrier, covering the alphabet from Airedale to Yorkshire. In the sword section I could range from the Viking broadsword to the terrifyingly sharp scimitar and I could do the worms sleeping, hypnotised or stone dead.
I had refrained from doing elephants after an unfortunate gig in rural North Yorkshire when four of the balloon elephants escaped . Ballon animals breed very quickly and in no time at all there were herds of balloon elephants rampaging across the countryside, trampling the crops and scaring the unimaginative.
The end came in November of 2004 after I. bought a batch of rogue balloons from a dodgy warehouse in Leeds. Two out of three of the balloons were 'poppers', as we call them in the trade, i.e. balloons that explode during the modelling process. After a particularly traumatic gig in a school hall in Easingwold, I got taken to the local military hospital suffering the effects of shell shock. Even though I made a full recovery, even now, If I'm walking down the street and a mortar shell explodes behind me, I worry that it's a balloon popping.
People still ask me to perform my latex miracles but I prefer to live with my priceless memories. Perhaps the memory that lingers longest is the look on Prince Philip's face as I unveiled my special tableau of a Scottish wire-haired terrier attacking a sleeping worm with a Viking broadsword……. but after such a serious illness I had to make some hard decisions. Did I want a life that was a whirl of glamour, meaningless sex and cocaine or did I want to be a balloon modeller?
Posted 2:32 PM | 0 Comments | Permalink
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