my life as a artist
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there is no limit
Monday 26th November 2007 10:53 PM
I'd heard there was a terrible refugee problem in Somalia, from a friend who's working out there, so I thought I'd see if there was anything about it on the telly, but it seems they're not interested. There was the odd bit about Iraq and Darfur, and obviously 'Dog Borstal', 'Can Fat Teens Hunt?' and 'Jimmy Carr is an Eleven Stone Tumour Feeding on the Diseased Body of TV Entertainment', but nothing about Somalia.
I went to the newsagents to see what the papers were saying, but except for the odd bits about Iraq and Darfur, it was all just cleverness and tits. Greg-behind-the-counter looked bewitching, in his one-size-too-small pair of red lederhosen, and now wearing his hair in a sleek power-bob, and had such an air of new-found confidence that I found myself asking him if he had any news on the Somalian refugee situation. He said he didn't but was keen to know if I'd had sex last night.I said I couldn't remember and went home to see if I could get some news off the internet.
I found a site called Hiiraan Online, which ran a story, under the headline 'There is no limit to the suffering', about Halimo Omar, a forty year old Somalian woman, looking after her blind husband and four increasingly hungry children, in a hut made of twigs and torn plastic. Embedded into the article, in an attractive, highlighted blue font, were three google adverts. One was for a diet book called 'Fat Loss 4 Idiots', one was for a dating agency for military singles, and the other was for a Patriotic Logo Item Store, offering custom flag pins and patriotic promotions. A bit like Henry Kissinger winning the Nobel peace prize, this sort of thing doesn't make satire any easier.
In a world torn apart by greed and war-mongering, where surplus sits side by side with starvation, and the media is full of people who aren't me, it's difficult not to get angry. Apart from lighting a candle in silent vigil, I find one of the best ways of dealing with this anger is expletive infixation, a useful form of tmesis, that's really helped me with my stress levels.
Expletive Infixation is a natural form of concentrated swearing that can release up to seventy per cent more bile than other grammatical constructions. Tom-from-the-comment box told me about it, and last week I went to an E. I. meeting with him, at the Quaker meeting house in Friargate. The next day, when I was in the newsagents, I asked Greg if he fancied coming along. He put down his nut-denuded walnut whip and looked at me, his perfect bob quivering coquettishly, every gleaming, lacquered hair moving in liquid unison, to form a fabulous tidal-wave of softness, that made his forehead look like a boulder-strewn granite beach. 'What's expletive in-fucking-fixation when it's at home?' he said.
Posted 10:53 PM | 6 Comments | Permalink
my cup of joy is carved with sorrow
Sunday 25th November 2007 8:09 PM
This morning, on an uneven playing field, York Corinthians lost 5-1 to CCP in the quarter-final of the Junior Yorkshire cup. (They'll be singing in the streets of Credit Card Protection tonight) The Junior Yorkshire cup is an open-age competition, and CCP were from the distant planet, 'Young', and exhibited such other-worldly skills as pace and hair colouring. If the Corinthians had been loose with their seed as teenagers, then CCP could feasibly have been their grandchildren
The Corinthians fashioned the first chance of the game, after eight minutes, when Speedy Rich sent in a looping cross to the unmarked Evans, lurking menacingly on the penalty spot. With the entire CCP defence, and indeed his team-mates, expecting him to volley it, the wily, old campaigner fooled them all by going for it with his right ear, which, recently weakened by a niggling ear injury, lacked the necessary power to trouble the keeper.
After half an hour, Evans, as one-eleventh of the Corinthians, received the ball behind ten-elevenths of CCP, two-thirds of the way into the first-half of the quarter-final, and was fractionally off-side.
The mid-field quartet of CCP, Nozzer, Snozzer, Wazzer and Bazzer, were running the mid-field, and, hopefully, an enormous student debt. By half time, the Corinthians were three-nil down, and when it became four, just after the break, all eyes looked to the tight-lipped, ashen-faced figure of the Corinthians manager, Brian, under his umbrella.
The fifty-something, York-born manager made a bold, double substitution, in an audacious, last-gasp attempt to wrestle something from the tie, and also in the interests of everyone getting a game. He put on John and Rudy for the tiring Bob, and the enigmatic Evans, who at times had been reminiscent of Anelka and Berbatov, with his electric bursts of nonchalant strolling.
The decision played immediate dividends when the Corinthians won a penalty, which was duly dispatched by Tim, his powerful, low, left-foot finish, and blood-vessel-bursting, fist-clenching, eye-popping celebration, putting us all in mind of Stuart Pierce. For the Corinthians, the goal was brandy from a Saint Bernard's, and though they still had a mountain to climb, a hot surge of new hope and belief thrilled through their sclerotic veins. Two minutes later, CCP went 5-1 up, with a goal scored by a young man whose complexion was so fresh, that it was almost mocking in its luminescence.
The stunned away crowd, huddled on the left touch-line of the exposed Knavesmire pitch, and called Kev, dwindled away from the disappointing spectacle, long before the end. Yet another quarter-final exit, in a major tournament, for the so-called 'golden generation', has put an unbearable strain on the Corinthians beleaguered manager, Brian. The question on everyone's lips is, 'Apart from the pub, where do the Corinthians go from here?'
Posted 8:09 PM | 3 Comments | Permalink
ndili bwino
Thursday 22nd November 2007 5:08 PM
It's cold today and I haven't got any gigs, so in an act of sympathetic magic I'm posting a picture of myself gigging in a hot place. The picture was taken by my old mate Steve, who besides being a musician, writer and photographer, also contributes witty comments to this blog, and is often 'Disappointed of Yatesbury'.
The picture was taken three years ago this week, in a little town called Cobue, on the shores of Lake Malawi, in Mozambique. I was going to strongly urge you, but have decided against it, because I think there's already enough pressure in your life, so instead I'm going to humbly suggest, that you visit Steve's website and read and see all about our rorytastic adventures in Africa. If the following URL connection doesn't work, google stevemarshall.org.uk and go for the result that has 'africa 04' in it. Muli Bwanji!
http://www.stevemarshall.org.uk/africa/africaindex.htm
Posted 5:08 PM | 3 Comments | Permalink
real tennis is a funny game
Thursday 22nd November 2007 1:28 AM
England 2 Croatia 3
Although England failed to deliver tonight, my local Indian takeaway, the Crown of Asia, didn't. I knew formation would be vital, so I started with the rice up front, sag aloo on the left, cauliflower bhaji on the right, pickle in the middle, and like England, a blob of yoghurt at the back.
After fifteen minutes it was more or less all over. On second thoughts, it was less all over, and towards the end, it was more all over. I rolled myself a soothing cigarette, (in deference to international harmony, using products from more than one country), and noticed the legend on the takeaway menu. The corner of the rizla packet was obscuring three letters, so it said 'Crow Asia', and underneath it said 'we deliver'
'At the end of the day, Gary, it's night', said Steve Maclaren afterwards. 'We only needed a draw, and with the luxury of hindsight and tactical awareness, I think we would have been more solid, and done great, with rice at the back, and blob of yoghurt out on the left, possibly mixed with some chopped red onions. I thought we really missed the crispy texture of Wayne Poppadom tonight, but at the end of the phone, Gary, we got what we deserved.'
Posted 1:28 AM | 2 Comments | Permalink
time and stars
Monday 19th November 2007 11:31 PM
Saturday was my birthday. I've had a good innings so far, and after a slow start, and despite a few reckless swipes before lunch, (and a dropped catch on 42), I've managed to get to 51 not out. In the fading light I can see the inexorable black and white scoreboard of eternity, and though the idiot click of digits disturbs my mind, my heart is a pavilion of peace.
I share my birthday with Rock Hudson, Martin Scorsese, Gene Clark, Peter Cook and Jonathon Ross. It's a testament to the veracity of astrology that I'm identical to all of them, except Jonathon Ross. 'The stars impel, they do not compel' and the fact that I'm not like Jonathon Ross is down to my own personal efforts towards spiritual salvation.
Yesterday, I had a birthday party at mine. As I've only got a porta-potti, on the invitations, I respectfully advised people to have a dump before they came, which my mum thought was really classy. The idea was to have a tarpaulin stretched between two caravans, and have huddled, oppressed people drinking soup round a brazier, which I thought might give proceedings a picket line/soup kitchen/apocalypse survivors sort of feel. However, intense swirling rain forced us into the great, but really small, indoors.
Despite, or maybe even because of, the enforced intimacy, the party went quite well. Due to the changed circumstances, I had the onerous task of uninviting Jimmy the donkey and Molly the pony. It wasn't just the matter of space, I explained to them, but the fact that recently, Jimmy has really let his personal hygiene slide, and I felt that in that crush, Molly might feel socially awkward.
I drank much pink, fizzy stuff, which turned my brain into pink, fizzy stuff, and this morning, into pink, fuzzy stuff. By way of consolation my mother said, ' Fuzzy-wuzzy was a bear, fuzzy-wuzzy had no hair, so fuzzy-wuzzy wasn't fuzzy, wuzzy?', which was sweet balm indeed.
This afternoon I got a phone call from an advertising agency, asking me if I wanted to become the face of Marks and Spencers for 2009. I told them I'd have to have time to think about it. On the one hand, I'm worried that doing adverts might seriously compromise my artistic integrity, and go against everything I sit down for, but on the other hand, when I see how nice Brian Ferry can look in a pair of Saint Michaels, easi-stretch sensible-trousers, available in beige, burgundy and quiche, it really makes me think. Should I sacrifice my Blakean quest, to realise that true art is true religion is true science, in exchange for a potential lifetime's supply of underpants?
Last night, before I went to sleep, I had the realisation that Russell Brand and Nigella Lawson are the same person.
Posted 11:31 PM | 5 Comments | Permalink
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