my life as a artist
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hoof fasting
Saturday 15th September 2007 7:08 PM
Since I've been giving Molly the Shetland pony organic carrots from Alligator wholefoods, she's started looking more and more beautiful. This morning, in the delicate silver mist of dawn, with her rich straw-coloured hair flopping over her sleek, noble brow, she looked uncannily like Cate Blanchett.
I look at Jimmy the donkey, with his huge white ears and flea-bitten nose, and think 'Is she really going out with him?' I know she is, and so do the cow and calf, and the chickens, geese and rabbits, because we saw them licking each other in the corner of the field.
Despite my childish and unreasonable jealousy, I also give Jimmy organic carrots, and in many ways I admire him, not only for his calm, friendly manner and inordinately large penis, but also for his personal hygiene.
Jimmy is so spotless, that if I'd run out of crockery and he was a very occasional table, I'd eat my lunch off him, so long as it was something integral, like a sesame tofu-burger, rather than scrambled egg or soup. (Obviously, for health and safety reasons, I'd let the non-meat burger cool down before I put it on his back, and I wouldn't do it if either of us was driving or using a mobile
phone)
The cluck amongst the chickens is that Jimmy and Molly might get married in spring, and everyone's hoping that Archbishop Santamu will do the service. He proved, when he led England's first gay goose wedding, at this farm, in January, that he doesn't mind getting his cassock dirty.
However, his secretary wrote to inform us that the Church of England can't sanction a marriage between two different types of animal. To me, and Bachman Turner Overdrive, any loving is good loving, and the love between a Shetland pony and a donkey is a beautiful thing, but to the Archbishop of Canterbury, Rowan Williams, and his council of bishops, it's just mucky. I think Rowan's become a little narrow-minded these days, and to be honest, I think he was much better when he was in The Incredible String Band.
Unless we can fly in a sympathetic bishop, from Uganda,say, then we'll have to have a pagan wedding, otherwise we'd have Jimmy and Molly living in sin.(and that would be mucky)
Posted 7:08 PM | 3 Comments | Permalink
swingle singers sing Beefheart
Sunday 9th September 2007 8:52 PM
It's Sunday evening on the sofa, and I've just been radio-surfing, tweaking a tranny's nipples and trying to elicit the soothing breast milk of a companionable human voice.
I abandoned The Archers after two minutes. Sid's lost and I realised I didn't care. I think of myself (I could just end the sentence there) as a man of compassion, but the fact is, I don't really know who Sid is, and with the best will in the world, or even the best willy in the world, I can't really take on his problems. Affairs are now soul-sized, and in this thirsty, dirty, world-on-fire, every bucket of love-water that I draw from my well of compassion has got to count.
Radio Leeds was playing Indian film music, which held me in nostalgic reverie for about a minute, until it started making me hungry. Wriggling in my brain, and then pupating, the song and dance act became saag dansak, and every tabla seemed to say 'poppadom'.
Radio three had a feature on the Swingle Singers, and the exciting new directions they were taking. I decided that without speedy confirmation that these new directions were towards death-metal funk, I was going to turn it off, and start blogging. They weren't, and the rest is present history.
A Hippy in the Horn, who's worth two in the bush, comments '….at first glance it looks like your back on the football thing again'. At first glance it does, but if you look closer, you'll realise the blog's more about the dual nature of the masculine soul, the hollow victory of death, and Derek. On Radio Heslingtons 'Blog Review', Darren Donkersley described it as a 'pearl', and if my brain was the oyster that grew it, then football was the piece of grit that seeded it.
Les Miserables kindly congratulates me on my hat-trick, and then goes on to share his own moment of manly achievement, while Tom comments, possibly mischievously, that the validation word for him was 'kick'. Naom himself writes in, spelling his name 'Noam', in a possible attempt at self-negating existentialism, and wittily offers 'hegemony or 4-4-2' as a possible subject for a blog.
This morning Corinthians lost 7-1 to Cliffe, thereby ensuring that there'll be no match report on that particular game. England fared a bit better, beating Israel 3-0. It's the first time I've ever seen Michael Owen score from outside the area. Apparently his Mum and Dad were so pleased that they let him stay up late, and watch Match of the Day.
Posted 8:52 PM | 2 Comments | Permalink
letter to the corinthians
Tuesday 4th September 2007 11:02 PM
I notice in my Guardian guide that on Saturday morning, the entire funeral of Lady Di was re-broadcast on the BBC Necromancy channel. 'Candle in the wind' was apparently one of two songs that Elton Ben wrote in memory of the princess, the other being an upbeat, jaunty folk song called 'Di died and Dodi died'. The royal family were so grateful to Elton for singing the former, that after the funeral, they let him take home all the floral tributes.
On Sunday morning, despite, or maybe even because of, the continuing troubles in Afghanistan, Iraq, Darfur, Somalia, Palestine, Manchester, etc, etc, etc, I played football for the Corinthians Over 35's. It was an inter-club game between the morning team and the afternoon team, and because I play for the morning side, and the game was played in the morning, it felt like we were the home team.
The Corinthians is a charitable body, (we give away cheap goals), founded in response to a letter sent by a man from a civil war-torn village in Mozambique, eleven years ago. That man was Christiano, known to us as Christo, and last week, he died. I was tempted to slip in the word 'sadly' there, but I refrained. For those left behind, there is always grief and loss surrounding any death, but for Christo himself, his soul freed from the slow dream of matter and Richard Dawkins, it might have been a joyful revelation.
In quiet celebration of this possibility, we gathered round the centre circle before kick-off, and held a minute's silence. Although I've never met him, I addressed him in my thoughts, and though he was from southern Mozambique, I used the language of Chi Nyanja, which is spoken in North West Mozambique. Either out of gratitude at hearing a neighbouring African tongue, or compassion for my appalling grasp of the same, I believe that on Sunday morning, Christo reached out a helping hand, from across the chasm of death, and enabled me to score a hat-trick. There's no other explanation.
We won 6-1. The grassy expanse of our Sim Balk Lane pitch might as well have been the open tundra of a sun-soaked Samburu wildlife park, for the morning team were lions and lammergeyers, and the afternoon team were dik-diks.
In the dressing room afterwards, homo-erotic steam rising in girly curlicues from the quivering, muscled mass of our bronzed, heroic bodies, our almost Namibian centre-half, Derek, asked me how many I'd scored.
'I scored a hat-trick' I replied, as matter-of-factly as I could, my little heart pumping with manly pride.
' I bet it's a long time since you said that sentence' said Derek.
'Yes' I replied, 'and I suspect it was in a high-pitched, squeaky voice.'
Posted 11:02 PM | 4 Comments | Permalink
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