my life as a artist
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cheeky monkeys
Friday 23rd May 2008 8:31 PM
Just logged in to say that there appears to be a party going on in my comment box, and I don't know whose idea it was, but I don't mind, as long as you tidy up afterwards. In a way, I'm actually quite impressed with you're meekness, perkiness, outrageousness, and inscrutability. Today's magic validation word is 'happy'.
Posted 8:31 PM | 3 Comments | Permalink
a wim-wam for ducks to peak on
Monday 19th May 2008 10:50 PM
Dear Reader, where the hell have I been? I could say that I've been to upper-bub'orth, where they stuff monkeys with doo-uff (dough), or that I've been there and back to see how far it is, or maybe been to see a man about a dog. Truth is, the non-cyber world, where blood tastes salty and the scent of may-blossom mingles with donkey-farts, has been so demanding of late that I haven't been able to indulge in my usual reverie.
Yesterday was the last fixture of the 0ver 35's season, and you'll be over the moon to know, that after fifty-one years of hurt, I've finally won some silverware. Although it only stands seven and a half inches tall, one day I'm going to build a huge trophy room to put it in. It's a model of a football boot, done in platinum, with gold studs and trim, and it's mounted on an obsidian plinth that bears a silver plaque, inscribed with the words; 'York Corinthians Sunday Morning Team, Top Goal Scorer'.
With the one I scored this morning, I ended up with twenty-three, which as my Mum rightly says, is a great strike-rate at any level. Due to my unorthodox finishing, many of my team-mates suggested that a platinum shin-pad would have been more appropriate, and they were also keen to point out that, due to the unusual accounting of our tight-lipped, ashen-faced maestro, Brian, twelve of the goals were actually scored in the pre-match warm-ups.
After an emotional presentation in the pub, and an open-topped bicycle reception in the farmyard, (surprisingly free of paparazzi), I went home to re-hydrate, and take on board some isotonic dahl and Earl Grey power tea, because as far as I'm concerned, next season starts now. Obviously, I have savoured my triumph, but because I don't want to lose focus, or appear arrogant, I've been doing it when I'm on my own, in the conservatory, and even then, only for twenty minutes at a time.
Posted 10:50 PM | 7 Comments | Permalink
does ghetto blaster make glasto better?
Monday 5th May 2008 10:38 PM
On the announcement that Jay Z, the 'rags to bitches', hip-hop super-star, is going to headline the Glastonbury festival, Noel Gallagher says;
'I'm not having hip-hop at Glastonbury. It's wrong.'
Noel, who also 'slams City's sacking of Sven', goes on to say that the festival has a long history of miserable white blokes playing guitar-based songs with unfeasibly long anthemic choruses.
The last time I bothered making the trek to the pyramid stage was in 1961, to see Pearl and Teddy Carr, so it's unlikely that I'll get to see the Jay Z gig. Except for Iced Tea, 10 cent and Snoopy the Dog, my knowledge of the hip-hop scene is sketchy, so I thought I'd check out some of Jay Z's lyrics on the internet.
There could be layers of irony that I'm not getting here, but he mainly talks about what an all-round brilliant bloke he thinks he is. He tells us that he's the best rapper and really hard, and that he's immensely wealthy and gets plenty of sausage action. I suspect that this delusory self-celebration masks a chronic insecurity, and it wouldn't surprise me if he holds onto his willy when he sings.
A lot of Jay's pain comes from a difficult childhood spent on the mean streets of Brooklyn, where he was set apart from his peers by a state of extreme poverty. While the other kids were running around in the latest fashionable trainers, Mr and Mrs Z were so poor that the young Jay had to suffer the embarrassment of 'hangin in the hood' in a pair of Kermit the frog wellington boots. A muddy Glastonbury could offer Jay the chance of healing.
This time when he slips on a pair of wellies, it'll be an act of inclusivity, and maybe, for the first time in his life, he'll be able to experience the practicality and comfort, and that indefinable sense of impermeable nurture, that only rubberised footwear can bring. When I wear wellies, I feel held and protected, and it gives me an almost godlike inner strength, where I feel that I could heal the sick and walk through water.
if it's dry and not a drip-drop
you'll hear the sound of clip-clop
that's the slapping of my flip-flop
as I'm dancing to some hip-hop
by a bloke who thinks he's tip-top
but should be working in a chip-shop
Posted 10:38 PM | 4 Comments | Permalink
