my life as a artist
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its a jolly holiday with mary
Tuesday 24th June 2008 11:10 PM
Les Miserable writes in to say, shockingly and controversially, that there is no God. He says he tuned in to the France Italy match with the express purpose of being thrilled by Ribery, only for Ribery to be taken off after just six minutes. Well, Les, I'm sorry that that event makes you feel as though you live in a maze without a centre, but consider that one of God's most celebrated traits is that of moving mysteriously. I felt that the early departure of Ribery fair smacked of mystery, and I think it's too early in the game, or 'le grand jeu' as Alan Shearer would have it, to commit yourself to a life of existential loneliness.
Tomorrow I'm setting off to Glastonbury, and the weather forecast is poor, so I've packed waterproofs, wellingtons, a woolly hat, some earplugs, and all the other necessary accoutrements for a carefree weekend of high English summer romance. I'm aware that my blogs have been infrequent for a while, and as cyber-space can't exist in mud, I'm afraid this will continue for a bit longer. As one of those six, who walk seven abreast, may I wish you all some sunny spells amongst these scattered and bewildering showers.
Posted 11:10 PM | 6 Comments | Permalink
come along now sun
Monday 16th June 2008 11:21 PM
Around springtime, I was really pleased to see the sun coming out of its midwinter depression, but these days it hardly seems to sleep at all, and I'm worried that it might be bi-polar. It's difficult to know what to do for the best.
I'm a great believer in the healing powers of music, and if I was God, which thank the Lord I'm not sir, I'd put on a mud-free gig, with really good toilets, for the fifth-dimensional solar system. Preferring musicians who are newly hip to the fifth-dimension, and having recently signed up Bo Diddley and Jimmy McGriff, I'd be looking to harvest a really good, but really poorly, drummer.
I've been watching quite a lot of the European Championships on the telly recently, despite my best intentions. I didn't think I'd be interested, but the fact is that, without England there, I'm not lost in a myopic fog of psycho-sexual anxiety, and I can actually appreciate the wider drama of the tournament.
Last night I watched Turkey make a remarkable comeback from 2-0 down, to win 3-2 against the Czech Republic, and such were the twists and turns of fate in the last ten minutes, that the commentator announced that he wouldn't be surprised to see a spaceship land in the centre circle, and lots of little green men from Mars get out and start running around. Interestingly, there were lots of other-dimensional entities out there on the pitch last night, including a spectacular, fire-breathing, Turkish winged angel, which the commentator either chose to ignore, or didn't see.
The game hinged on a bad mistake by Peter Cech, the Czech goalkeeper. His mother had insisted, because of the rain, that he wear a balaclava, and I think it must have put him off. My compassion for the Czechs was equal to that of the delight I had for the Turks, and as the players left the pitch, I felt tender and fatherly towards them all, as I witnessed and shared their contrasting agonies and joys. It was as though, for the first time, I'd actually been able to taste the true organic joy of pure football, unadulterated with the bad chemicals of molecular chauvinism. Having said all that, Austria versus Germany tonight was a bit crap.
Posted 11:21 PM | 4 Comments | Permalink
dig those crazy chicks
Sunday 8th June 2008 11:29 PM
Les Miserable kindly points out that odd-ball-odd Bill Oddie says that chick-tits can choke on peanuts. I'd heard that too, but assumed they'd be grown up enough by now to have molars, or at least access to a small magi-mix. Aware that there maybe some late hatchers, however, I keep a pair of tweezers and a bottle of rescue remedy next to my bed, in case I'm woken in the night by the distinctive, pitiful sound of choking chick-tits.
The fact is Les, I've decided that I'm going to close down both branches of 'Just Peanuts', just as soon as present stocks have been used up. Besides being a tit-mum's nightmare, The R.S.P.B says they can be quite high in natural toxins, and it's just not cost-effective, or fun, to test for aflotoxin at my age. (I'm fifty-one, I'm losing 50p a week, and each week seems to go by quicker)
I don't think dangling fat-balls is/are seemly, or a good name for a restaurant, so I'll probably open another couple of seed joints. The green, plastic internet, that hangs off the cyber-tree, says that nyjer seeds attract siskins and goldfinches, (which I haven't seen yet), and it says that robins and wrens go wild for mealworms, so I might have to brush up on my regurgitation skills.
Tom wants a haiku
Something about high class birds,
Fat balls and great tits
I know it hasn't got a 'season' word in it, Tom, to make it an authentic haiku, but the dodgy sixties 'birds and tits' stuff gives it an oppressive masculinity, that for me, locates it at a time of solar dominance, like that typically found around the summer solstice. A little bird once told me that desires are like feathers. You can use them to fly, he said, or put them in a pillow-case, and sleep on them.
Posted 11:29 PM | 4 Comments | Permalink
bye bye bo diddley and jimmy mcgriff
Thursday 5th June 2008 10:39 PM
Willie Wordsworth once said to a daffodil, 'Our meddling intellect misshapes the beauteous form of things. We murder to dissect.' Dorothy, his Dictaphone sister, who recorded these words, noted that the daffodil nodded in agreement. Aldous Huxley, many years later, wearing sensible trousers but refreshed by mescalin, said that intellect without goodwill can become monstrous, whereas goodwill without intellect is either ineffectual or misguided. A few years later, (about 15% of the previously stated 'many years'), Ian Dury opined that, 'There aint half been some clever bastards, lucky bleeders, lucky bleeders.'
After a fortunate find at the car boot sale on Sunday, and a frank and open discussion with my imaginary bank manager, I've opened a chain of bird-restaurants in the garden. Two of them are called 'Just Peanuts', and are greasy-spoon type places, frequented by skint chaffinches and hung-over tits. They're cheap, but because of the tightness of the mesh, the service isn't very good, and I think the words got around.
The third one, however, is a bit more up-market, and much more successful. It serves mixed seeds and has individual perching for eight. It mainly caters for the smaller, more discerning bird, (the striking, but vulgarly loud woodpecker, always dining at a branch of 'Just Peanuts'). On the first day I called it 'The Fat Duck', but after a solicitors letter from Heston Blumenthal have changed it to 'Ooh Get You Duck'.
I'm disappointed and shocked by Heston's attitude, having been round to his house for lunch only last week, (Surprisingly, he made us beans on toast. Even more surprisingly, he made it out of a kilo of artichokes and a copy of The Guardian), so I've written to him and barred him from 'The Ooh Get You Duck', along with all his fancy-dan mates. If I get up one morning, and find Jamie Oliver, Gordon Ramsey, Antony 'what-about-a-water-bottle' Worrall Thompson and Heston, dangling from my flagship restaurant, I'll shoo them off. Although it'd be quite prestigious to have so many celebrated, culinary arses, eating in one of my restaurants, it's the principal of the thing. If they're really hungry, they can eat at 'Just Peanuts'.
Posted 10:39 PM | 7 Comments | Permalink
