my life as a artist
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this is the world at one
Tuesday 17th April 2007 11:01 PM
Wayne Rooney's girlfriend has turned twenty-one, and along with Gary Neville, has vowed to overthrow the Putin regime…. Kate Middleton has finished with Prince Harry and has gone off with her Mum to go looting in Mogadishu. It's well Orwell!
A small fraction of fact excited by the friction of fiction. Is Prince Harry the real Harry Potter… are Princess Anne and the Queen Dementors?? The only thing us muggles know for sure is that Prince Philip is Voldemort.
'The truth is not only stranger than we think, it's stranger than we can think', my muesli said to me this morning over breakfast. Before I killed it with soya milk and teeth, the muesli drew my attention to a miraculous burnt image of the talismanic Huddersfield Town centre forward, Andy Booth, on my recently toasted slice of wholemeal bread.
I called Calendar news and within two hours I had a visit from a tv crew, in tow with a representative from the Huddersfield Town football club. They told me that the slice of toast was none other than the 'Toast of Destiny' spoken about in the Black Book of Golcar. As finder of the toast I get to manage the club with an assistant of my choice. I can't wait to tell my Mum the news. She wont believe it.
.
Posted 11:01 PM | 25 Comments | Permalink
Mmmm... bloggy...
Tuesday 17th April 2007 12:34 AM
..I can hear the distant roar of diesel blood pulsing down the main east coast artery by-pass. Bronchial trees bloom with intestinal flora and antibody birds love-sing under the blue breath of a big lung sky. The pale moon is a shuffling one-eyed doctor, drifting by, disinterested and drunk.
I am a spirit in the living body of Yorkshire. Great Whernside and Ingleborough are her fabulous breasts, Huddersfield is her mighty beating heart and the dales her taut undulating belly. York is her urinary tract expelling to Goole and the one-lipped vagina of Hull.
Don't go…. It's four days later and I feel a lot better about being here in York, in my caravan of love . I've just spent three days in London (or 'Neon meat-dream of an octofish' as my Dad used to call it) at a 'natural product' trade show at the Olympia.
Big Ron, the Tofu King of Malton and managing director of Clearspot Tofu, kindly booked his assorted bean-curd warriors in at the Kensington Hilton. Mmm! Chromey! It was a carpeted hospitality laboratory cum comfy battery farm with fantastic breakfasts. 'Eat like a king at breakfast, a prince at lunch and a pauper at supper' is never truer than when you're doing B&B.
Elementally speaking, the hotel room was a bit disappointing. There was no wood-burning stove, for a start. It was a smoking room so we did manage to introduce a bit of fire. There was plenty of water but there was no air and the only earth was a bit of soil on the carpet, from Yorkshire, via Ron's shoe.
That distant roar that I was whining on about earlier is the A64 by-pass, which is about a mile from my mobile-home of harmony, and now, at midnight on Monday, it seems like an occasional soft whisper, an indistinct murmur of love, compared to the ceaseless, slandering cacophony of central London.
The hotel was situated on the corner of a busy, bussy, four-lane roundabout next to a railway line. Window open or closed? It was a choice between either a) really noisy and almost suffocating or b) noisy and suffocating. We went for suffocation because we thought it might help us sleep.
So here I am, happy to be back in ork.. did you notice that? … I did… and by my frankness I've drawn your attention to it.. so you'll have definitely noticed… but I can't be bothered to go back and change it.. you know what it means, and it is what it is… I've got a really good bed to go to… I can have a) really quiet and warm or b) quiet and airy … Mmmm! Sleepy!
Posted 12:34 AM | 0 Comments | Permalink
the loss of a town, the gain of a nation
Wednesday 11th April 2007 11:52 PM
With all the kerfuffle surrounding the vacant managership of Huddersfield Town football club, me and Mum have withdrawn our application for the post. Although our support and affection for 'The Town' remains undimmed, to be honest, we felt a bit messed about with.
On Radio Golcar's 'Darren Donkersley show', the Chairman of the club, Ken Davy, said,
'Michael Parkinson's going to do it… no.. he's not… how about that Ginger nutmeg on mi 'ead son? OK! Yes! Er.. No!.. Lionel Ritchie… yeah!.. doing it…with soul.. definitely…..maybe…'
Instead we're preparing our application for the England job. Mum's come up with a revolutionary 1-1-1-1-1-1-1-1-2-1 formation, and two new flavours of biscuit, 'spinach'n'pineapple,' and 'beige'.
Thinking about the qualities of Brian Clough, Bill Shankley, Alex Ferguson, Jose Mourhinio and the emerging Roy Keane, I've decided to try and brush up on my self-esteem a bit. I've signed up with the local adult education college and I'm doing an evening course on Strutting and Intimidation.
As far as dealing with the media goes, we've decided to leave that to my Dad. As he's been dead for twelve years we'll have to mediate through Glen Hoddle. I know my Dad would have preferred his audio-incarnation to have been through someone more plain-speaking, like Jack Charlton, but those sort are rarely psychically gifted.
Last night I watched Manchester United beat Roma 7-1. That's what me and Mum have got in mind for England. I was wondering how Jack, Derek and Wobbly Bob, my fellow Corinthians, would deal with a midfield of Rooney, Giggs and Renaldo, without using fire-arms.
Posted 11:52 PM | 4 Comments | Permalink
full monday
Monday 2nd April 2007 9:50 PM
The moon is a huge electric honey-biscuit
God is dunking her in the black coffee of night
Onto the bright saucer of the earth
Moonlight crumbs fall and melt
We are in Betty's, and it's all right
Posted 9:50 PM | 2 Comments | Permalink
Royal Henfield 250
Sunday 1st April 2007 9:43 PM
This afternoon the weather was sufficiently clement to sit in the caravan with the door open. An emboldened Old English bantam hen wandered in and started eating the toast crumbs that had spilt on the floor from the kitchen unit. If I'd put a stick on it, it would have been a Flintstone's hoover.
I told the hen, (who I think had been drinking), that when I was seventeen, I used to have a motorbike called a bantam.
' It was a BSA 175 and smelt like a chip-pan fire.' I said. The bantam carried on eating the toast crumbs, but by the staccato rhythms of its golden neck it seemed to say to me, 'Was it a two-stroke?'
'Yes' I replied. 'It sounded like a Kenwood chef mixer. Later on I had a Triumph Tiger Cub, which was more like it…it was a 200cc four-stroke…. that sounded great!'
The bantam, by following the trail of toast crumbs, was now within four feet of me. A small, marigold- red washing-up glove waved in rubbery splendour on its head. The sharp leather bones of its feet seemed to scratch out rough words on the floorboard. It was as though it was asking me if I'd ever had a Royal Enfield Crusader.
'Yes' I said 'It was the 250, not the 350… it leaked so much I referred to it as the Royal Oilfield.'
The bantam finished the last few crumbs, and after a last, brief desultory search for a new trail, walked out of the caravan door into the bright cold of the spring afternoon.
Later my friend Mick came round on his Honda Fireblade with half a dozen fresh eggs for me. I gave him some millet and some hemp. Before it got dark I put some chicken-wire round him in case the foxes got him.
Posted 9:43 PM | 241 Comments | Permalink
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