Wednesday, 28 November 2007

Notes Made - Will Self, Two Gallants, Babe Etc Etc

A schoolgirl drumming on the window of a bus headed up Wood Green direction of a Monday afternoon, complementing the beat with an intermittent grunting rises from someplace tween her kidneys and her throat. The murmur of the engine and the crank and the grind of the metal round about providing an approximation of the hissing and the popping and the scratching of well-worn vinyl.

‘Well’ she says, shrugging with one shoulder. ‘Fucking sing, then.’

Lass sat opposite bats the command aside with a flaff of a lever-arch file. ‘Don’t wanna sing.’

A third girl fashions a hi-hat out a polly-pocket and an A4 sheet of paper, trattle-la-dratta-ba-tattin’ two biros off the plastic.

Sing, I said.’

‘I don’t wanna fuckin’ sing fuckin’…. fuckin’ alright fuckin’ Hmm. Hmmmm. Hmmmm. Y’got’t goin’ ohhhn, an…’

‘Y’see? Y’see, that’s what I’m sayin. Yes.’

‘Hmm. Hmm.’

Fella across the way cocks an ear towards them, the foot jigging on the spot, a can of Carlsberg clutched in a gloved hand, a loudhailer held atween his knees.

* * *

Through the pores of the nightime the colours of County Antrim bleed o’er Rutland Gardens, pooling around my feet for a moment, then taking off like a flock of grackle aflame, dispersing in fleeting bursts of image and sound, swallowed by the amber-hued sky.

* * *

Flatmate and bandmate and creator of Generic Mugwump Sir Fleming hoists me towards a video on youtube ‘thin which Will Self yacks about his new book to a roomful of Google employees.

The crux of his concerns this time around appear to involve post-modern geographies, the simultaneous shrinking and expanding of our environments (its easier to get from A to Z but B,C,D,E,F,G,H,I,J,K,L,M,N,O,P,Q,R,S,T,U,V,W and X get swallowed in the process) and the difficulty in acquiring any kind of cognitive map of anywhere anymore (for anywhere in this instance, read The City).

Thinking - Of London I know Rutland Gardens, I know this street and I know that a right turn leads me towards the bus to Wood Green and a left turn leads me to Manor House tube station. This, Sir Self asserts, is my micro-environment. My micro-environment is connected to other micro-environments scattered here and there by way of leagues upon leagues of metal and glass.

How to know somewhere, anywhere, in these circumstances?

Walk, says he. Fucking put some cunting effort in.

Become a Flaneur, by Jesus!

Thinking - Do I have the arse for Flaneury? If I saw myself wanderin’ aimlessly about the street out thonner of an evening would I think ‘Ah, lovely fucks, here’s a Flaneur strolling and a-dand’rin’ by way of reclaiming the map - or would I more likely hunch the shoulders and lower the head and mumble about I gave my last change to the fella next Holborn station wears the black leather sailor’s hat and the beige cardigan, sorry, and also, your arse is saggin like a bastard, near to hittin’ the backs o’ your ankles them cheeks o’ yours. I bet your willy’s shite an’ all.’

* * *

Two Gallants at the Koko in Camden. “Baby, when I was young of age / I had you for my world / the oceans were your eyes / the pastures were your curls”.

County Antrim in the gaps atween the notes.

Sat afore the speakers this time last year with Two Gallants talking about they come from the old town, baby, where all the kids are crazy…

If I remain, then I’m to blame…

And saying now - alright, Two Gallants, I didn’t remain, I came here with eyes wide and arse wider, but tell me - what now?

Rilo Kiley at Shepherd’s Bush a week later, Jenny Lewis winking this direction, clapping along with Sir Fleming there for a moment, the white light draped about her, a girl with black-rimmed glasses pressed against me for a second and the breath on my ear sounded for all the world like What Now? This’ll Do, Pig. This’ll Do

* * *

To Do

Finish review of The Radiators album and incisive critique of Babe - Pig In The City (Crux of the matter - I hated it back in the day and then all a sudden I come to see that not only is it better than its predecessor, but also, that it’s the one of the key films of the 1990’s, that it’s the best film George Miller ever made and that it is without doubt the bleakest, sharpest, most intelligent, most prophetic portrayal of The modern City I’ve ever seen outside of sci-fi. Thinking of the design of that cityscape - it makes it hard to breathe. Images I can’t see myself ever forgetting. Although I did first time around. I can only assume it's owing to how, back then, I was under the influence of The Hard Stuff, The Strong Stuff, The Daddy’s Tickles, The Vicar’s Friend, The Cock-Wilt Wonders, The Cold-Case Calamities, The Fanny’s Frumps, The Scrumpy Scrotums, The D.T Doozies, The …)

Finish New Tune For To Try Out At Gig Next Week

Finish First Draft Of The Novel

Ask Laurie From The Tube Station If She Maybe Wants Some Grapes Sometime

* * *

Job interview at local care-home for persons recovering from severe schizophrenia.

Woman seemed to very much like my tie even though it had a soup stain on it from three months ago that I never noticed till I sat down afore her and so spent the rest of the interview with my forearms raised front my chest as if I was scared she might use one of the recovering schizophrenics to stab me in the liver, but no, it’s just that I haven’t worn this tie since the summer and I never thought of washing it and its got a great cunt of a Campbell’s splurge up the front.

Of qualifications relating to the position I had none. “I was detained in a nut house for a while, however” I tell her.

She thanks me and says I might hear back but most likely I won’t but to hell with that says she sure isn’t it the wildest time of it we’re havin’ with the rain…

Saturday, 10 November 2007

Dream #217 … “It’s Eating Me!”

Stepping out into the crud-hued spit all pitter-pa-tatterin’ about Piccadilly Square he was two inches shy of slipping a fresh-rolled cigarette atween his lips when he noticed that his mouth had fallen off his face.

Glaring down the steps into the belly of the tube station, thinking; Hells blazes, it’s came off away in thonner somewhere…

On the platform probably, swept away with the winds blustered about the tunnel as the train careered off towards Leicester Square. Images of men and women peering nervously at it from behind upheld paperbacks and free newspapers. Nudging one another. “What’s… is that?” … “Fuck me, a mouth with no face round about it.” … Security guards prodding it with sticks, whispering in others ears so as not to panic the commuters - “Be careful. It could be something to do with the Islamists. Could be the very mouth of Mohammad himself there on that floor if you only but knowed it.”

He descends the steps with his tongue jib-jabbing at the flesh now sprawled atween his nose and his chin. Discreetly he eyes the passers-by, looking for someone maybe brushed against him by accident and now has his mouth blathering away on the nape of their neck or the crook of their arm.

Down the escalator with one hand clenching and unclenching. What if he left it on the train? What if it slid off when he was stepping on at Knightsbridge? What if somebody stole it? Some rogue now racing around Hyde Park with his mouth in their trouser pocket, hissing at folks as they pass - “Mouth, mate? Face hole for you? Beautiful fucking orifice, beautiful. Tonne, fair an square. Tonne for a tongue-hut, yes son, yes…”

Black market orifice trading…

“An arsehole for you, darlin’? Oi, mate, an arse for you this evening? An arse and also here’s a vagina, join em up you got a minge you can shit out of, save time, spend it with your children, maybe, or with a Labrador or Chaffinch you might keep as a pet, I don’t know.”

Stifling heat, the air oscillating demented atween the screeching white walls. Dabbing a handkerchief against his brow.


Aw Holy Mother Mary and the Martyrs… My pores are gone…

By the time he’s stood on the platform itself he has noted the following items missing;

One (1) Mouth

Innumerable Pores

One (1) Earlobe

Half (½) Of One (1) Kneecap

Two (2) Retinas

One (1) Nostril

Three-Quarters (¾) Of Each Eyelid

Sixteen (16) Wrinkles From The Underside Of His Scrotum

One (1) Belly-Button (But Not The Fluff Gathered Therein)

As each second topples flailing down the grinding gullet of history, another fragment of his being disappears.

His hair, his lower jaw, the knuckles of his right hand, the fingers of his left…

Delirious with panic, he lunges for a woman stood next an advert for Terry’s Chocolate Orange, gesturing wildly - Help me! Help me please, oh sweet Merciful Fuck, woman, help me! I’m disappearing! Something is eating me! Fucking eating me, I am disappearing!

Eyes wide and teeth bared the woman jerks the head this way and that. “What the fuck!”

He has vanished.


A fella stood beside her offers a hand. “The wind in these tunnels is fierce” he says, helping her to her feet. “Knock you right on your tits if you’re not careful.”

She brushes herself off, thanks him. The train arrives fourteen seconds earlier than announced.